


Norman Who?

by JeromeSankara



Category: The Walking Dead (TV), The Walking Dead RPF
Genre: Altered Mental States, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brain Damage, Brain Surgery, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Rickyl Writers' Group, Slow Burn Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2018-10-30 03:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10867839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeromeSankara/pseuds/JeromeSankara
Summary: Filming the premiere of season 8 comes to a deadly halt when Norman Reedus is now fighting for his life after an accident. The cast is forced to wait and pray for him to wake up again, but when he does, they come to the realization that their best friend may be lost to them forever, leaving a shell of a man in its place. Will they ever have their cuddly, affectionate wingman again, or will they instead be forced to pick up the pieces of whatever remains of Norman Reedus?





	1. The Incident

This was the wrong day to try quitting cigarettes.

Bloodied fingers rolled the cancer stick within his hand, the tip burning just enough to visibly see the soft glow in the dead of night. He turned it over and gave it a tap against the tree he was leaning against, letting the ash fall to the ground.

A puff of smoke was released from his lips, having held the smoke just a bit longer than usual to soak it in. The next that followed was a slight cough and clearing his throat. Yeah, he had to quit.

Then the steel blue eyes looked back to the scene surrounding him and he remembered why he was smoking in the first place. He thought that the season 7 premiere had been bad...

Season 8 was making him reconsider his life choices.

Greg was giving his instructions to the camera crew, looking through the camera to make sure that the positioning was just right. There were 'x's sitting on the dirt floor, each marked with a different color. He got the blue one this time. Andrew teased that Greg was just buttering him up, 'the color matches your eyes' as if they were on a date.

He gave a grunt and tossed the cigarette to the dirt, even when there was more than half the stick left. This was probably one of his worst days of filming, and they had only gotten the script this morning. Greg had been avoiding talking to the cast for obvious reasons, not wanting to have rage shoved down his throat.

Now he respected Greg. He's done great work.

That does not mean it's okay to fake his death.

Norman reached up and prodded at the back of his head, unnerved by the sacks of fake blood that was hidden beneath his long hair. It was fragile like a bubble, and he already had his head chewed off for playing at it before. If it burst, it meant they had to start the hour process all over again. God, he thought he was never going to get out of the make-up chair!

They already had the basic make-up of the wound beneath the sack, and it was horrifying to say the least. Even when he had been 'gutted' in his other films, it was just nasty. Probably was going to give the fans heart attacks.

Probably would give Mingus a heart attack when he watched the episode... Almost wanted to send a text to warn him...

"How y'ah feeling, Norman?"

It was hard to keep himself from losing his carefully composed temper, as everyone had been prodding him all day. He barely had a moment to absorb himself into the script, to figure out how it was going to play out before someone was jumping down his throat. But he was willing to make an acception or two people.

"How do y'ah think, Jeff? You not read the script?" Norman scoffed as he glanced up, stomping the cigarette further into the dirt. It was a pain to have to make sure there was no evidence of the cigarette, as he was smoothing out the ground beneath his feet. The fans had sharp eyes, being able to tell if a bit of blood had been repainted or if they flipped an image.

The barbed wire bat was still slung over his shoulder, and he could already see that Jeffrey was getting deep into character. His posture was changing, his nose almost constantly in the air, leaned back and reeking dominance. His scruffiness had been tamed again, and he nearly felt bad that Jeffrey had to be shaved down as soon as he had come back to set.

Well, so did Andrew. Damn did they grow some handsome beards.

Jeffrey let out a hearty chuckle, the smirk widening on his face. They had officially gone into Daryl/Negan territory, and it was enough to help ease his nerves. After all, he could swear all he wanted to get into character and no one could get offended.

"Well maybe if you hadn't been so rude to leave my home, then I wouldn't have'ta punish yah!" The light brown eyes were practically begging for a response, egging on the hunter to dare to speak back against him.

Already Norman was finding himself into character, the glare ensnaring him. He dropped his right shoulder, still aching and bandaged from the shot he was still healing from. The actor had to clear his voice and drop it to the gruff, smokey rasp.

"...Don't see why you 'spected me to stay," he grunted lowly, his hand already instinctually reaching down for the knife that was within his pocket. All it was in actuallity was the handle, the actual blade being a thin piece of wood. They had learned to not load Norman down with a few dozen blades and bolts, since running from walkers had become a bit clumsy.

The man could only grin back at him, admiring the spark to dare speak back to the one that had beat him so ruthlessly. He just couldn't break the hunter no matter how hard he tried...

His arm extended, closing the distance between them with the end of the bat now not even an inch away from his forehead. The barbed ends were teasingly close to his dirtied skin, the edges still coated with dried fake blood. They would have to take quick cuts to properly cover the beast of a bat in blood and brains, something he wasn't looking forward to waiting through.

"Now, I think you should keep those pretty lips of yours shut. Would be a shame if you were the reason for someone else to die..."

Pain latched onto his heart and he visibly flinched under the words. Even Jeffrey knew how cold that was, to know that Daryl had a hand in the demise of their dear friend Glenn. His hands clenched at his sides and one grasped the handle, yet he forced himself into silence. Let Negan dig his own grave... Let him prod the hunter.

"Actually, I think you and Pricky Ricky over there should be begging me for forgiveness! I was a god damn saint in only killing Korea kid and Red. I could'a taken off more than Carl's arm!"

Negan...

"And after all... I even took care of you, gave you a place to sleep and gave you some damn good hospitality."

The hand tensed, knuckles turning white around the handle.

"Although, I do think the widow owes me a bit to not killin' her the moment I saw her... Think she'd be willing to forgive and forget?"

Teeth snapped together and a growl rumbled in his throat, before suddenly reaching forward and grabbing a hold of the barbed bat. It was the real prop with a bit of weight to it, but he could barely feel it as he tore it free from his grasp, only to yank the handle out of his pocket-

"Okay boys, lets save a bit for a camera. Good job, Jeffrey."

Oh, of course. Realization plopped into the pit of his stomach as he stared at the Negan grin, doing more than his fair share of work to prod the actor along. They did this from time to time, antagonizing each other to prepare for a shoot. He just wished that Jeffrey had let him finish his cigarette before he put up with that shit...

The bat dropped to his side and he grunted in acknowledgement of his friend's ability, only to hand the bat back to the owner's hand. "Had yah going good, Normski!" Jeffrey laughed as he took the bat from his coworker, only to reach out to ruffle his hair.

Norman successfully ducked the attempt, finally able to smirk back. "Don't you dare mess that shit up, they'll kill me for real!" he huffed, reaching back and checking to make sure that all the sacs were still in place. They were hoping to do this with as little takes as possible. The season 7 premiere took days, as it would become so emotionally strenuous to film shots of each member of the Walking Dead family being killed. There were only so many times they could redo make-up and try to dry away the tears before they became emotionally exhausted.

This time, it was just him.

Checking to make sure that the cigarette was properly conceiled in the dirt, he shoved the fake knife back into his pocket and approached the blue X taped to the dirt. The lights were low since they were in the dead of night, and it would capture the terrifying mood for this scene.

All he could hope was that it wouldn't take too long...

* * *

"Alright guys, I think we're ready to shoot!"

Norman groaned as he wiped the dirt off of his cheeks, having had his head pushed into the soil one too many times. He slowly pulled himself back up onto his aching knees, but refused to move from the spot. They had only just gotten everything right...

They had spent the past hour with their marks, and were about to start filming when it became cloudy and covered the moon. While they could remake it in post, they had all agreed that they wanted a single good shot and to have it be as flawless as they could.

They were all sitting in a semi-circle again, all except for Andrew and Jeffrey who were standing in front of them. It was a rather basic scene to be honest, a fake-opener to the season 8 premiere to make it look as real as possible. Negan would con Rick into killing one of the people, and Negan would tell Daryl to beg for his life. He would refuse, Negan would give Rick the bat, Rick would smash his skull in, sob a bit, then wake up.

Pretty self-explanitory.

The first few shots had been practice, not quite unloading all the emotion yet but working up to it. They had reviewed their lines, as there were a few other characters involved with the scene to make it more realistic; Michonne, Carl, Maggie, Jesus, and Rosita. Each of them were having their make-up touched upon to make sure that they looked as dry-eyed as they could before the scene would start.

Surprisingly enough, Norman was still dry. It was his death after all, he didn't have to see anyone else die.

Andrew was pacing in front of the semi-circle, running his fingers through his peppering hair. He idly wondered if they were going to dye his hair too or let it go gray. Looked pretty nice with the peppered look. His coworker was looking extremely anxious at this point, as he normally did before scenes like they did.

Hell, they were all unnerved.

"What's the matter, officer friendly?" Norman chuckled, even though his voice was still hoarse with the Daryl tone. Andrew looked up, pale blue eyes still wide and slightly red around the edges but he managed to give a faint smirk back to his best friend.

"Just another day in paradise," Andrew replied, his Rick accent still thick. It wasn't a pure southern accent anymore, it was just Rick. Just the way he liked it. He would pull it out at almost any time to tease the cast, and Andrew enjoyed the role just as much as Norman enjoyed Daryl. They both got to put their hearts into their parts.

"Do me a favor 'n try not to mess my hair up too much. Gonna take hours to rinse this shit off," Norman sighed as he managed to hold his hands to his sides, still feeling the urge to play with all the squishy stuff plastered to the back of his head. That had been another reason for the amount of practice- to not show the make-up and gore.

Andrew cleared his throat awkwardly, and Norman already knew that Andrew was uncomfortable with the idea of causing the gore. It wasn't so bad when Jeffrey had to do it and just watch. It was different entirely when they were the ones to do it.

The brit dropped his head down a bit, and his fingers ran through the hair on the back of his neck. He took a few more paces, kicking at a rock just tucked beneath some soil. The fact that there was chatter all around them didn't help their anxiousness for the scene, making final adjustments to lights and angles.

This was the only thing they were filming tonight. It had to be as close to perfection as they could attempt.

"...Aw, c'mere Grimes. At least gimme a kiss good-bye."

That perked Andrew back up again, looking to the goofy smirk that Norman now sported. This was his way to break the tension between any of his Walking Dead family- hug, lick or kiss. Andrew was lucky enough to get all the kisses he wanted.

"What am I going to do without you, Norman?" Andrew replied, dropping the accent and allowing that sweet British tongue take over instead. It gave the brunette flutters every time he heard it, something he was a bit embarrassed to recognize. Wasn't his fault that Brits had a way with words.

Norman just chuckled as his coworker stepped across the clearing, already feeling the eyes of the cast upon them. They thought that their antics were adorable, and thankfully Melissa wasn't on set today. She threatened to leak out photos of their 'love life', even when it was already plastered across the internet already.

Andrew soon knelt down before the hunter, huffing out a soft laugh at this predicament. Here they were, about to commit a heartwrenching scene that would have probably all of them in a wreck for the rest of the week, and they were doing this.

"Don't make me wait, baby," Norman teased, losing the gruffness. Andrew just rolled his eyes before finally leaning forward and letting their lips press together. It was always special and sweet, even though most of Norman's kisses were on the cheeks. He only got away with kissing the women on the lips, all except Andrew.

He smiled into the kiss as his heart fluttered away, holding onto the kiss just a little bit longer than they normally did. They both needed the support to get through this scene.

"Alright boys, I don't think we're shooting that kind of a scene tonight!" came the familiar voice not more than a few feet away from them. No one really was uncomfortable with their near constant show of affection, and half the time they shared a chair while watching the others work on their parts. But Danai loved to tease.

They pulled apart with just a hint of a blush on both of them, and Norman dipped his head with embarrassment. "God damn it, 'chonne. Lemme get a little action before I die," he sighed with fake sadness, looking up to their samauri beneath thick eyelashes. He could always win Danai over, whether it was for a slice of pizza or to take the rest of her Starbucks when she had to go back to her role.

Normally he just took it when she went anywhere away from it, then feigned innocence when she returned. "I'll allow it this time, but you two better behave. Rick's still in my house and I still want my bed to sleep in."

"God damn it, Danai," the brit said, embarrassment brimming in the chuckle.

But of course before Norman could find something witty to reply with, Greg's voice boomed over the megaphone he held. It wasn't quite necessary for a scene within such a small area of space, but it got their attention all the same.

"We're taking it from the top! Andrew, Jeffrey, we start with you! Let's get this rolling, we only got a couple hours of moonlight!"

Ugh...

Norman sat back upon his knees again, resuming the straight position they would start at. His eyes were set to the ground at first, trying to pull together his thoughts as much as he can, but he couldn't help but glance behind him.

There sat the model bat, the actual one that would be dealing the deadly blow. It was a bright blue styrofoam bat, the exact same size as Lucille but without the spikes and without the weight. It would sting a bit, but it would be enough to pop the blood bag.

The plan was that when they were cutting between shots of the characters, Andrew would switch out the bats when the camera wouldn't be on him.They would edit the bat in post to make sure it had every gruesome detail of Lucille.

They had to repaint the bat after the season 7 premiere... and he had hoped that it would never see the light of day again. Norman groaned softly to himself before glancing back forward as each actor was getting into their starting marks. Andrew was standing before him, and their eyes locked again. Andrew gave him a little nod, and Norman gave one back.

If there was anything that he was glad about within his scene was that he would not bow down.

Daryl refused to break.

* * *

"Didn't have to be this way, Ricky. All you had to do was keep up our agreement, but you just had to break the rules! And I don't think I need to remind you what the punishment is gonna be."

Negan strolled around the semi-circle of his victims, grinning down at them as if he was about to welcome them into his personal spot in hell. His steps were slow and methodical, and he made sure to tap at the deputy hat still sitting upon Carl's head.

The kid gave a grunt, but kept quiet. Even he knew that it was a miracle upon the back of a tiger that he was still alive today.

He made it to the end of the line, pivoted on his heels, before walking back. Jesus was first, then Rosita. She still held the scar on her cheek. After that was Maggie, as brash as ever, and sitting ever so close to her was Daryl. It was as if he was still attempting to protect her, his broad shoulders leaned back as if to prove as a boundary between Negan and her.

Negan tassled with the thick hair of the hunter, but was slightly disappointed when he gained no reaction. "What, you don't miss me, Daryl? What about all the fun times we had!" Negan scoffed, before roughly patting his head as if he was a dog. Still no response.

He walked further down the line, passing Michonne first, and then Carl who sat on the end, just as he did the last time. Michonne shifted her head just slightly, glaring at Negan through the corner of her eyes.

"Oh my sweet Jesus, you look like I just took a shit in your spaghetti!" He ended the words with a laugh at his own expression, and gave her a pat on the head too. Michonne visibly flinched, and the glare only burned deeper.

It was then that Negan abandoned the six people kneeling into the dirt, striding confidently up to the lone man that stood before all of them.

Rick was visibly shivering, his hands tight around the handle of Lucille, damp with blood from an unknown victim. His face was pale and his mouth agape to know that he was back into this nightmare of a situation, but it was all so much worse.

"You know, I've got a soft spot for your people, Rick, I really do. Your kid's got nuts of steel, your little lady's kick ass at her samauri tricks, and scarface over there even pulled a gun on me!" Rosita gave out a hiss, but quickly fell silent again.

Negan now stood beside their leader, only to lay a heavy hand on his shoulder, almost enough to unbalance him. The grin on the madman's face was to the point that his cheeks were about to split, but it only pleased him more to see Rick beneath his power again.

The large hand gave him a few rough pats, before pulling him closer to the semi-circle of victims.

"Now who do I want to pick... Actually, you know what? How about you pick!" Negan grinned at his own brilliant idea, only for it to fall when Rick looked back at him with horror.

"Oh... Do you really need my help for this? Well, alright..." Negan huffed dramatically, rolling his eyes before reaching forward and grabbing on top of Rick's hand holding Lucille, before forcing it outwards.

"Eenie... Meanie..." The bat was beginning to sway again, just as it did so long ago, but now Rick was clutching to it. Negan had leaned in close, to the point that his breath was against his cheek even as his deep brown eyes were looking only to his victims.

Carl, Michonne...

"Miney... Mo..."

Jesus, Maggie...

"Catch... a tiger..."

Rosita, Daryl-

"Kill me! Rick, just kill me!" was the cry that burst from Rosita, at a volume that it gave nearly everyone a jump. Jesus and Maggie turned to her in horror and were about to tell her to silence herself until Negan's booming laugh cut off their words.

"Now why would I make it that easy? What, you really think you're worth the men that you guys killed? You must think very highly of yourself, the ultimate sacrifice to save your group!" Sarcasm drooled off his words, echoing around near silent forest.

She had already gone pale and seemed to sink a little bit into the floor until Negan tilted his head just slightly and made Rick lower the bat. "Now that I think of it... Hey, Rick, ol' buddy ol' pal. If you had to choose one person in this big shitty world of ours, who would be the last person you want to give up?"

The large man released the shaken leader, with tears already beginning to seep into his eyes. He walked back to his placement behind each of the victims, his face twisted with deep thought.

"Now... I know you haven't had Jesus that long to care that much. Actually, I was kinda hoping I could have him back, if you don't mind." Negan looked up to Rick with a grin, but when he didn't get the answer he hoped, he instead sighed dramatically before stepping away from the man in the trench coat.

"Maggie, here, is a hell of a prize. Takes balls to think you can get away from ol' Negan..."

Steps were loud as they swept through the dirt, slow and methodical.

"Carl, I wanna keep that bad ass alive just to see that amazing boy grow up. You've done damn well, Rick, I gotta tell you that."

He rolled on his heels again, before standing right behind the two that had been unnamed thus far. He swayed on the balls of his feet, humming to himself in his thoughts to just what decision he was going to make.

"...Actually, let's see. Daryl."

The hunter stiffened.

"How 'bout you go beg Rick for your life. Wanna see you squirm again, for old time's sake."

Finally deciding just what he would do to help prod along this process, he slid himself between Daryl and Michonne before turning to look at the hunter himself.

The damn asshole wasn't even looking at him. He hadn't the entire time they were out here.

The piercing blue eyes that he had carved out all the life inside were instead attached to the quivering leader, but not in a plea for his life like he so wished. Just... watched him. Trusting him. Like he was the dog that would never leave his owner's side even when he's been thrown away so often.

Negan even tested to make sure that Daryl was still awake by snapping his fingers before his face, but he didn't even blink. His eyes were all on Rick, as if he was the only man within this world.

Now this... This just wouldn't do.

"No need to get shy now, Daryl. I really don't want to have to kill you," Negan attempted to bargain, because it was partially true. Daryl was a good worker, and he still needed to fully break the hunter to where he will never step foot outside the Sanctuary ever again.

But Daryl's thin lips remained tightly sealed. He wasn't going to beg.

Slowly, Negan rose back up straight again, now with a deep frown. "You're making it really hard for me to keep you alive..." he warned again, now starting to rub against the scruffle of beard on his chin. It would be such a loss...

"...Welp, I guess that does it! Rick! I want you to kill Daryl for me, if you'd please."

* * *

God, Norman, you're making this six times harder than it needs to be...

Andrew swallowed harshly and took a step back, only for his mouth to drop. Already he could only imagine what he looked like, now that tears were finally starting to fall down his cheeks. His breath was caught in his chest for a few moments before it came out in a stuttering gasp.

"Now I know this is probably pretty hard on you, since you two are practically sewn to the hip..."

Jeffrey was walking back to him now, and he could almost see real sympathy within his gaze. After all, he wasn't going to be the one to smash a friend's skull in, even if it wasn't actually real.

His arms were limp at his sides now and his breathing had grown faster, on the verge of panicking.

"So-."

Jeffrey grabbed him hard by the upper arm that was holding the bat, only to almost literally drag him across the clearing to the semi-circle of his family. They were all looking up at him now, even Norman, but he didn't even look mad. God damn it, Norman, be mad at me! I'm about to bash in your brains! It was just too peaceful, too forgiving!

"D-Don't make me-" he stuttered through a torrent of heaving breaths, and he could already feel his nose beginning to run. That was always the shittiest part of crying, since it wasn't exactly pleasant to look at. Especially not with all the cameras that were pointed directly at them.

There had to be at least a dozen, and one was following to look beside them. Another was capturing the expressions of the various members, and one was trained on Norman at all times.

"I know, I know this is going to be pretty tough on you, so lemme help you." Jeffrey finally released the arm, only to push his heel deep into Norman's back. The older man gave a grunt as his face was shoved to the dirt, his head turned to the side for his cheek to cushion the blow. The camera zoomed in at this point to catch the expression. He could only make out how he was gritting his teeth together, the steel blue eyes squeezing shut.

The shoe remained firm on the hunter's back as Jeffrey cleared his throat loudly, then leaned down. "I'm gonna help you make it quick, 'cause I really did like you, Daryl. I've never seen someone stare down Lucille in my damn life and live to tell about it. ...Well, until now that is." Jeffrey cracked a grin again before he grabbed Daryl by the hair and shoved it into the dirt.

This wasn't particularly in the script, but Greg was allowing them to do what they wished for the end of the scene. Even the final moments will be just for Andrew and Norman to decide, and Norman had been told to choose his own last words after he was hit. While it may not quite be 'suck my nuts' or something of that quality, but it would be something that was purely Daryl.

Jeffrey released the thick hair at this time, though careful to keep the hair covering the blood sac as much as he could so it wouldn't be seen from the angle of the camera. Only then did he pressed his finger by the base of the head, beneath the thickest part of the skull. "Your best bet is gonna be right there. You give it a nice clean smack, you're gonna either break the neck or fuck up the base of the brain. Either way, win win, but you're gonna want to put your weight into it."

By this point, the rest of the cast were starting to tear up, 'Rosita' gave a sob and was looking away, and 'Maggie' was close to breaking. 'Jesus' couldn't look away and even he was starting to tear up, and Andrew vaguely wondered if this would help deliver the idea of a relationship between him and Daryl.

'Michonne' was in what he kindly called 'mama Shiva' mode, teeth gritting together and eyes throwing daggers at Negan, shivering as if she was about to burst out of her skin. 'Carl', though, was probably the worst. Losing Daryl would be like losing a second father, since he had held together their family when Rick was losing his mind. He was starting to sob as well, and he seemed to be almost ready to plead for Negan to release Daryl.

It won't matter, though. Negan had made his decision that Daryl simply needed to die.

"It'll be easy peasy, lemon squeezie!" Jeffrey chuckled as he slowly removed his foot from Norman's back, and Andrew winced at the sound of Norman taking in a gasping breath. It was probably for show and that Jeffrey had not in fact been making him suffocate, but it was just too real right now.

Then Jeffrey had his hands on him, forcing his arms to lift up with the bat and starting to crane it back to the beginning of a powerful swing. "Now you're gonna have to smack that sucker if you don't want another Korean kid episode. Can't guarentee the eyeballs won't be popin' out."

The sob that Andrew broke out was surpising even for him as the image of Norman bleeding and twitching invaded him, and he stumbled back a step. Jeffrey was surprisingly there to catch him, even though he still wore that wicked Negan grin. He was noticing that some of the crew was starting to look away, camera men were chewing on the inside of their cheeks, and it was becoming infectious.

But they had to keep going.

Norman was slowly pulling himself back up off of the ground, and this was the first time they would attempt this scene. They had the blocking down, the emotions in place, and this was now improvised to fit the scene. Andrew no longer was performing a role; he was about to kill his best friend.

The hunter coughed a couple times, his head hanging low and exposing the back of his neck, but then he turned his head just slightly from facing the ground. Their eyes locked and Andrew's arms grew too weak, unable to support the barbed wire bat any longer. He was trying to hold back the bitter sobs at this point, and the bat was now at his side again, weighing six times its previous weight.

The blue eye was so calm. So collected. Just... peaceful. He knew Norman had done more than his fair share of death scenes, from a quiet death of cancer to being torn apart and having to keep the appearance of dead for an extended period of time. Maybe it was the only way for him to be so calm when facing his own death.

"...S'alright, brother."

That was when everything fell apart.

The husky voice that whispered those words to him made each character react, between sobs and cries to be chosen instead, and it was becoming too much for even Andrew.

Jeffrey was stiff beside him, and it was good that no camera was on him at the moment because he was probably holding himself back as well.

But Andrew was forced to watch the look of peace that overtook Norman, to his best friend, before he let his head lean back down and expose himself. His thick hair shifted and revealed the sacs of fake blood and the disgusting wound that was beneath the sac, what he was about to cause.

Just do it, just get it over with. Even as tears were clouding his vision, all he could think about was his job. He would make this quick. He wouldn't let Norman suffer any more.

His hands tensed around the bat as he forced his mind to empty to every thought but that. Make it quick. Make it fast. Make it painless.

Bile was racing up his throat, but he forced himself to lift the bat. It weighed more than anything he has ever held in his life, and all he wanted was to get this moment over with.

"...i-I'm sorry."

It became a blur from that point. He had pulled the bat far behind his own shoulder, and he swung with as much force as he could muster. He felt the bat connect.

And he will never forget that sound.

It was a horrific scraping when the barbed wire connected first, sinking into flesh. They tore as the wood finally struck the skull, and he heard a crack that reminded him of hitting a baseball. The follow-through was harder than he thought, as it felt as if there was the danger of the bat getting stuck within the mass of make-up and padding, and it forced him to swing even harder to pull it back out.

Even before he had managed to complete the swing, the reaction began.

He couldn't see through his tears yet, but he managed to pick out the splatter of red that now slashed onto Danai, and Norman almost immediately collapsed.

And the sound he made...

It was a horrific, gutteral noise that he had never heard in his life. It sounded as if it was choking Norman with agonizing pain, as if he had been set ablazed. Breathing had now become agonized pants, sputtering as he collapsed against the ground.

There was barely a moment before Andrew collapsed to his knees beside him, dropping the now bloody bat to the dirt. It was an odd relief to know that this scene was almost over as he pulled the body into his arms, only to feel the spastic twitching against him.

Norman's eyes were wide, as if they were about to burst out of his skull as he rolled the hunter to face him. His face was twisted, his mouth agape as his body continued to twitch and jerk. It really looked like Norman was in agonizing pain...

"I'm sorry, Daryl, _I'm sorry!_ " Andrew sobbed as his arms curled around the torso, and he was faintly aware of the stagnant silence that now surrounded them, broken only by Daryl's feverish attempts to cling to life.

Then the blue eyes looked at him. They locked onto his face and made chills run down his spine. It was all so real... It would make an amazing beginning of an episode. Reaching forward, he forced his shaking hand to run through Daryl's long, thick hair, only to jerk as he felt the liquid spreading beneath his touch.

It was flowing steadily, and he wondered if they had actually put in a blood bladder to constantly push out blood. It wasn't uncommon, but a bit much for a scene like this. What he didn't understand was how -warm- it was, and how sticky.

He had to fight against his rampant relief of having survived the worst part of the scene, forcing tears to continue streaming down his face. Any moment now, any moment Norman will say his final words.

The spastic twitching was beginning to slow at this time, his limbs slowing to a stop. The breathing had grown to feverish pants, trying to cling to the last breaths of life. His lips were moving, trembling, but he just couldn't make a sound.

Seconds were ticking by, and then Andrew was beginning to worry. Did Norman forget whatever he was going to say? He had said he had the perfect words.

Then Norman's hand started clawing at his shirt, desperately trying to pull him closer. Of course Norman would make this as dramatic as he could, and he would make sure that this scene would not be forgotten.

The panting became close to hyperventilating, and the hand nearly tore his clothes with the strength and stiffness. Come on, Norman. It's all you.

He shifted his head to help hold Norman's head up, pulling it behind his head-

...then he felt it.

The warm, sticky mess that could not have been any make-up. It was burning in his hand, pulsing. Throbbing.

At that same moment, the breathing suddenly stopped, the hand clenched, before Norman finally fell limp. The eyes were still open, staring past him into a growing expansion of nothing. The air within his lungs was let out in a shudder, before turning silent.

"...Daryl?"

Someone screamed. Andrew never knew who it was, but it snapped Andrew back into the reality. He snapped his head up, confused for a second. This wasn't in the script. It was supposed to be quiet, to let him mourn in peace until he was forced to awaken to the next scene.

No one was supposed to scream.

His head whipped to the side, searching for some sort of explanation, until he saw _it_.

The blue styrofoam bat. Unused. Perfectly clean. Lucille had been tossed next to it, shining with blood and with pieces of flesh stuck within the barbs.

Only then did he realize what the scream actually was.

_"Someone get the fucking medic!"_


	2. Racing against Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dead of night, dirt is splattered with blood. It isn't until the blood begins to dry that cold realization sets in.

It was complete mayhem. People were screaming out orders and commands. Others were flocking into the clearing. Most abandoned their cameras still on, dropped boom mics, practically tripping over themselves to reach the scene.

Andrew had only been given the time to comprehend the scream before hands had grabbed onto his shoulders, yanking him a few feet back and leaving him scrambling on the dirt. He could barely keep his own thoughts in line as he struggled to get back to his feet, the only thought he managed to understand was that he _ne_ _eded_ to get to Norman. He _had_ to help him.

But there was already a cluster of crew around his best friend, and their voices melted together.

He didn't realize that he was trying to claw his way through them until arms had hooked around his body, dragging him away. " _No_! Norman!" Andrew cried out as he tried to fight his way back, but more hands were upon him.

Wide blue eyes darted around the scene, trying to find someone who could help him get back to his friend. Through the crowd he managed to find the five remaining actors still in their places, frozen in shock. Jeffrey wasn't around, he probably went to find help.

But he couldn't stop focusing on the bat. _The bat!_

The scene blurred again with his tears, and he continued to cry out for his friend, begging for him to answer, but there were too many voices.

Someone told the crew to step back, and the on-site medics were on the scene. They were talking to each other in what almost seemed like code, and he couldn't understand anything. All he could see of Norman was his legs and feet, and he had been turned onto his side to see the wound.

After a few moments, they had rolled him onto his back again, and one of the medics were moving, jolting. Up and down rapidly.

CPR.

"Oh god, no!" Andrew cried out with realization, and his legs collapsed beneath him. The hands finally released him at this point, allowing him to grovel into the dirt. His own sobs were covering up the noises of actors talking to each other, the sounds of the medics trying to find his pulse, crew moving their set for an attempt to get a stretcher in.

They were in the fucking forest. The ambulance couldn't get through the trees. They were going to have to _carry_  Norman on the stretcher to the ambulance.

It felt like hours until they rolled the stretcher in, managing to ease it through the trees on the safest path possible. Crew were now becoming security to help clear a path through the web of people and he had to listen to the medics guide each other to picking up his best friend and place him on the stretcher.

The same medic had now climbed on top of the stretcher and was still continuing CPR. Another was placing on the neck brace, but it already was getting drenched with blood. One was talking to Norman, as if it would help perk him up by telling him that everything was going to be alright. God, how could they be so calm! This wasn't just anyone!

This was _Norman!_

The medics worked fast to push the stretcher across level ground, before being swallowed up in the crowd and forcing him to lose sight of him. Their voices still carried and the initial shock was beginning to pass. It left deadly silence, only broken up by his sobbing. He could feel the eyes on him, and they had to all be blaming Andrew. Why wouldn't they?

He just bashed Norman in the head with Lucille.

He just killed his best friend in front of everyone.

After everything they've been through, he had to be a god damned idiot and splatter his head across the floor.

There was only one way that he could make this right. He wasn't going to let Norman go through this alone.

Finding the strength to get to his feet was hard enough. Managing to run with feet made out of lead was damn near impossible. Cast and crew were trying to grab him but he forced himself out of their grasp. There would be nothing that could separate him from Norman.

Nothing except Jeffrey Dean Morgan.

"Andrew, don't! Don't do this man, you don't want to see that!" was the hard voice as the muscular arms grabbed him around the shoulders, preparing for a headlock if needed. It nearly strangled Andrew within the grasp, yet he still twisted and pulled against it.

"Let me go, Jeffrey!" he howled at his friend, fighting back the tears to glare back into equally hard brown eyes. The man was much stronger than he was, probably on the level that Norman was and he already knew that fighting was no use. But he didn't understand that he couldn't let Norman go without him!

"You don't want to see him like that, and we'll get in the way!" Jeffrey spoke softer this time into his ear, even though the gruffness was still present.

Tears blinded Andrew again, and words escaped him. Jeffrey was right. All that would happen would be that they would get in the way of the medics that were trying to save his life.

"...God damn it...!"

But before he was able to break, he felt one of the arms release and the other grabbing onto his upper arm- just as he had done in the scene mere moments ago.

"Not gonna leave him alone, though. We just gotta go by ourselves."

He was pulled through the mass of cast and crew, yanking him through and leading him through the mess when he could barely see past his own tears and agony. Andrew stumbled from time to time, tried to speak to Jeffrey, but the older man didn't stop, even when it became more of a drag than anything else.

They were out of the forest within a couple minutes and they heard the ambulance sirens beginning to wail. The lights were blaring within the darkness, since they had not lit up this way. It was their guiding light at this point, until they managed to get to the clearing close to where their trailers were stationed.

The ambulance had been driven onto the flat ground in an attempt to get closer, and they were just closing the ambulance doors.

One of the medics had stepped out, not wanting to crowd the inside and was taking off bloodied gloves. He gave a heaving sigh as he looked down to the ground, just as the ambulance began to pull away.

"Where are they going?!" Jeffrey boomed out with a voice that was scarily close to Negan, to the point that it made the young medic jump. Only after managing to gain his composure did the young medic clear his throat, shooting a gaze back to the ambulance as it finally hit the pavement and sped away with such speed that it made Andrew's stomach drop.

"Grady's Memorial, sir." Of course. The same hospital where this series began might be exactly where it ends. There was also the fact that it was in Atlanta, which was at least an hours away. Chances are, though, that the roadways would be cleared. The ambulance may even have a police escort for such an emergency.

Jeffrey yanked on him again before he could get too far into his head, and he realized that he was dragging them towards the two motorcycles that were parked beside the trees, belonging to both Jeffrey and Norman.

"Come on," Jeffrey muttered, a bit calmer this time as he picked up his own helmet and begun to strap it on.

"J-Jeffrey, I-I can't, I don't know how-" Andrew stammered the entire time as Jeffrey was adjusting his straps to make sure that they were tight. He wasn't allowed to talk much longer until Norman's helmet had been pulled over his head.

It was loose on his head, as it had been designed specifically for Norman's head. The same one that was crushed open and bleeding, gaping from the skull being bashed open, the brain unprotected, gusting out more and more blood-

"You're riding cupcake, Cupcake." Jeffrey tried to smirk as he was busy pulling the straps on tight, doing what he could to keep the helmet on safely. Only after he felt that Jeffrey was moments from choking him did he finally let go and swatted the helmet just to make sure that it was on safely.

"Now get on. We gotta move," Jeffrey said, finally starting to lose the edge in his voice. It was amazing how Jeffrey had managed to hold himself together in such a situation, and how little Andy managed. Jeffrey had already climbed onto the motorcycle and started the engine, hearing the familiar roar. Andrew wasn't use to the noise of the motorcycle- he usually clouded it out with listening to music during the ride.

He wasn't exactly able to have the luxary this time.

Without giving himself another thought, Andrew swung his leg over the seat and grabbed onto Jeffrey's sides just as he normally did with Norman. What he didn't expect was Jeffrey grabbing his wrist and pulling it tight around his waist. "You're gonna want to hold on damn tight. This isn't a cruise to dinner." Andrew swallowed, and did as he was told.

By the time that Jeffrey had streaked the motorcycle out of the parking lot, Andrew had given up all restraint and was now clinging to Jeffrey as if he was the only savior between life and death.

The roar hurt his ears, and he only managed to gain some composure by closing his eyes and pressing his face against Jeffrey's back. They couldn't talk over the roar and the wind rushing past them, but he soon heard the sound of the ambulance siren.

We're right here, Norman. Hang on.

* * *

Double doors slammed against the stone walls with such force that it made the entire room shake. There was the sound of panting and desperate attempts to catch their breath, before feet sprinted down the hall. Multiple people tried to stop them, to ask them what they needed, but they shoved past without second thought.

It wasn't until one of the staff at the end of the hallway flagged them down that they were directed to the right room that they slowed down just enough to where they didn't knock the door off the hinges.

"H-how is he?! Is he alright? Did he-"

All questions stopped as they finally absorbed the scene in the small waiting room, having been slightly set aside to give some level of privacy. Jeffrey was fidgeting in the corner of the room and was using his phone, probably to contact his wife to say what happened, and Andrew was sitting in a chair with his head in his hands.

"He's still in surgery," was the soft voice from Jeffrey as he looked up from his phone, his eyes red around the rims. "...They're gonna be in there for a while. Had to call some docs to come in and..." Jeffrey swallowed and looked down, averting his gaze to the rest of their fellow cast.

There had only been a few allowed to come to the hospital, knowing that it would cause a scene if the entire cast and crew of The Walking Dead suddenly stormed into an emergency room in the middle of the night. They probably already had people on their tail, having a few cars following them to the hospital, but they hoped that it was coincidence.

The ones that managed to slip by and come were Danai, Lauren, Chandler and Greg. The others would probably be able to filter in later, or contacted by phone if anything came up. The entire cast was still somewhat in their costume, granted that Danai had thrown off her wig the first moment she could. Chandler had rid of the eyepatch probably in the drive up as well, but was shaking like a leaf.

Andrew didn't look up from his own hands, feeling his shoulders tremor with each hard breath as if the world was closing in on him and squeezing his body. Jeffrey had resumed to looking to his phone, before quietly excusing himself from the room, probably to talk to his wife.

He had to do the same eventually... He guessed that Gael and kids would be awake at this time, but he wasn't aware of the actual time. All he knew was that it was one more moment until he knew whether or not Norman lived or died.

Slowly the four trickled into the room, finding no use to just standing at the entrance any longer. Danai soon sat herself a chair or two away from Andrew, knowing that he needed some space. Chandler had excused himself to the bathrooms, probably trying not to cry in front of all of them. Poor kid was still so young. And he had seen everything... He'd later learn that Chandler had vomited not long after they left to follow the ambulance, unable to handle what he had seen.

Greg had situated himself across the room, walking on pins and needles the entire time, while Lauren soon was following Chandler, even if it meant going into the men's bathroom.

Within moments, the room had grown just as quiet as it had since they got there. A nurse had a desk on the far side of the room, and the main hallway was just outside the doorway. Doctors were busy going to and from, some would peak in only to be nudged along. People were curious of course, not expecting any of the actors to be here, but the doctors at least had the sense to stay away.

Every now and then, they would see someone being desperately wheeled past. There would be the same codes that they had been using while on Norman, sometimes someone still doing CPR and everything. They would glance up, watch them past through the glass walls of the waiting room, then go back to whatever they were doing.

Chandler and Lauren came back after a while and sat together. A nurse came in and brought some snacks, having been taken from the cafeteria and given to them as a gift to help pass the time. They were grateful, and the nurse didn't question why they were all there.

Then they got a few batches of coffee that only seemed to last for fifteen minutes before it was drained. Granted it probably was the worst thing for them to drink at this point, but they needed something familiar. Something to distract them from what was happening.

Jeffrey came back after a half an hour, and his cheeks were red and his eyes puffy. Jeffrey had been so strong the entire time, but Norman was his friend for twenty years.

Greg had stepped out every now and then to make a call, and his phone was almost constantly buzzing. It got to the point that he just gave up and stepped out to answer the calls, taking a cup of coffee with him. This was going to be a long night for him for sure.

Chandler had resorted to soaking himself into his phone, playing whatever mobile game was popular. It was a good distraction, but it usually didn't last long.

Then a nurse came in, holding a few bags. She was meek as she entered the room, swarmed with the gloom and depression that soaked every inch of it, yet she carefully approached each person in turn. By the time that she came to Andrew, he had only just looked up to see her sad smile, a pathetic attempt to cheer him up but an attempt nonetheless.

She left as quickly as she came, leaving them to ponder over the items they were given. They had been given what seemed to be some sort of overnight supply. There were fresh clothing, though they would probably have to trade with each other to find appropriate sizes. There was a toothbrush, toothpaste, brushes, everything they could possibly need.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he visibly cringed, glaring up at whoever dared to touch him. Jeffrey was looking down at him, his face a mask void of emotion except tiredness. "...They have a shower we can use. Let's get you and Danai cleaned up."

Danai?

Andrew blinked, unsure to why Danai had to go with, excluding her out. It didn't seem that she heard Jeffrey, not with her quietly talking to Lauren over ancient magazines, apparently trying to solve a crossword puzzle. But as soon as he looked at her, probably for the first time the entire night, his blood ran cold.

There was still blood.

It caked to her darker skin, mostly on her right side from the spray of Norman's blood. There were flecks of it on her cheek and jawline, and across her neck. Mixed in between the flecks seemed to be almost chunks of what he dreaded to be parts of Norman's skull and brain. She seemed numb, and probably hasn't realized it yet.

No one wanted to outwardly say that she was covered in their friend's blood and skull. But then... so was Andrew.

He looked down upon himself this time, and realized to why everyone was looking at him so strangely. It wasn't because they knew who he was.

It was because of all the _blood_.

Almost immediately he began to shake, choking on the air that couldn't quite reach his lungs. All this time, he had been _soaked_  in Norman's blood. It was all over his shirt, crusting and cold, and all across his pants. It was so drenched that his pants were sticking to his skin. And his hands...

His hands...

There was still long strands of dark hair threaded in between his fingers, and there was some flesh still underneath his nails and in the crevasses. But they were absolutely covered in bright red blood. He could now feel the dried blood against his face and cheeks, probably from holding his head in his hands for the past few hours.

It was in his hair, on his face, on his neck, his chest, his pants, his soul...! He could see nothing else but the blood that he had spilled from his best friend, probably killing him. They were trying to save a corpse in the other room because he had made a _st_ _upid_  mistake! He killed Norman! He smashed in his head-

"Andy, Andy you're okay. Just breathe."

It took a sudden gasping breath for light to flood his vision again, and he realized that he had been holding his breath the entire time. His body was numb but tingling, and he could barely focus on his shaking hands.

Greg was knelt before him, and his hands was on his cheeks to hold his head steady so that Andrew looked back at him. Jeffrey was retreiving the nurse who was walking towards them, reaching out to touch the lead actor.

He cringed away from her touch, only to desperately try to smear the blood off his hands and onto his shirt. But it wouldn't come off!

"Mr. Lincoln, why don't we go somewhere quieter?" was the soft voice of the nurse who had now stepped back a foot or two to ensure that Andrew wasn't perceiving her as a threat. "Or is there someone you want to call or talk to?"

It was routine working with family or friends of a patient in intensive care that suddenly breaks down. What Andrew couldn't believe was that he was the one doing it. He could feel their burning stares at him, glares, accusations without sound. How dare he get to break when he had been the one who broke Norman!

He had managed to pull his face out of Greg's grasp, practically curling into the chair as tight as he could. All he could feel was the glare, all he could hear was that noise... That sound...!

_Crack._

_"You give it a nice clean smack, you're gonna either break the neck or fuck up the base of the brain."_

_Crack._

_"S'alright, brother."_

_CRACK!_

_"...Daryl?"_

_"Andrew?!"_

The soft feminine voice was the last thing he expected to hear, but it was the only one that managed to work its way through the mass hysteria inside his head. His head snapped to attention, even as his breath was still in gasps before he found the flip phone being held out to him by Jeffrey.

He had been in too much of a rush to retrieve any of his belongings since they had been filming. Jeffrey only had his phone because he always hid it inside his Negan jacket. How someone managed to get a hold of his phone was beyond him, but he couldn't begin to care.

"Gael...!"

The phone was snatched out of Jeffrey's hand, and no one else existed besides himself and who was currently on the other side of the call. He needed Gael. Needed her support. Needed to hear her voice.

_"Jeffrey called and said that there was an accident! Are you okay?!"_

She would already know that there would be no reason for Andrew to be this upset if something happened to himself, but she needed to check anyway. The only way he could be such a mess was if something horrible had happened to someone else.

"It wasn't me...! I-"

Andrew needed air. Needed to get out of the room.

Stumbling his way out of the chair he had been sitting in for hours was less than graceful, but the others moved away to give him room. The nurse gently touched his shoulders to help lead him out the doorway, doing her best to guide him while he focused on nothing else.

 _"Andrew, it's okay. Calm down, I'm right here._ "

"Don't tell me to calm down! I _can't!_ "

Already he berated himself for snapping at his wife, his blood-crusted hand tightening onto his phone. He was managing to gain his breath back, but it was far from recovering at this point, only wandering aimlessly and only directed with gentle touches to the arm or shoulder.

_"Andy, just breathe. Deep breaths."_

He obeyed, even though the first was practically a gasp for air that almost sent him back to hyperventalation, only to be guided by his wife to slow down. In, one two, out, one two. In, one two three, out, one two three.

In, one two three four...

Out...

Warm night air touched his skin, and the light around him dimmed extremely. There was a breeze, and he had been led outside, to some balcony. Andrew didn't even look to see if there was anyone else, didn't care to listen to the nurse walk away and close the door.

Another trembling breath in, and Gael was talking again, her voice slow and gentle.

 _"Alright, good. Now I want you to_ slowly _tell me what happened. Right from the beginning. Take your time, honey."_

Swallowing nearly choked Andrew, but managed to hold himself steady. The fresh air was pulled into his lungs and released, finally able to smell something that wasn't aneseptic or sterilized. There was the smell of traffic and gasoline. Smells of the city.

"...We had our first scene tonight. It was..." Andrew knew he wasn't supposed to speak at all about recording or filming. It was so hushed that they couldn't mention who was even there at filming that day, or who was not. To give details away about a season premiere... It was grounds for being suspended, if not outright fired.

...Fuck the rules, at least for tonight. They may not even have a show to go back to in the morning.

Gael was still patiently listening on the other line, and he managed to make out her quiet breaths. There was little sound on her side, maybe the kids were still asleep. Maybe they were off doing something else. They wouldn't have school, anyway. Just starting their vacation...

"...It's the opener. Uh, the whole... Negan kills another character, but it's just a dream. A... fake opener. Something to get the fans excited." Or give them heart attacks.

"Um... It was decided that..." He had to swallow again, tears flooding his vision. "...D-Daryl was going to die. Not for real. Just in the dream."

Gael had taken in a sharp breath at this time, but gained control of herself almost immediately. She was already hoping that Andrew wasn't going to tell her what she thought...

"U-uh... R-Rick was the one to... I-I..." his words broke into a soft sob, and Gael was still silent. It took longer than he cared to admit to gain enough control to speak again, but he just...

"I-I fucked up. I didn't switch bats. I got..." Another break.

Just say it, Andrew. Admit it. Tell her what you did. Tell her how you picked up that death weapon, didn't stop to think for two seconds about the one thing you had to do, and did it.

"...I think I killed Norman."

The silence that followed was unnatural to say the least. It was as if the entire city had stopped at this revelation. Hearing the words aloud for the first time coming from his own lips only made the weight on his shoulders triple in size. It was squeezing his lungs, forcing out his breath, trying to undo him.

Bile was running up his throat at his stark realization. He killed Norman.

He _killed_  Norman.

"...Oh god, I killed Norman!!"

His stomach compressed against itself, and the images were flooding again. Those eyes that were begging for an end to the pain. Pleading with him. Why did you kill me, Andrew? What did I do wrong?

"I-I smashed his head in with Lucille!"

Andrew, why? Why did you have to kill Norman? Were you threatened by him? Stealing _your_  show, hogging _your_  spotlight?

"I thought he was still acting...! He was bleeding, and I didn't do anything! I let him die!"

Norman will never forgive you for this.

You killed him.

"I killed my best friend!"

You murdered-

His body finally gave up in holding back the sickness that had been plaguing him, barely able to move his face away from the phone before he abruptly vomiting onto the concrete balcony. His throat burned, his stomach on fire, but the images...! There was so much blood! And Norman... He watched his best friend...

He was only allowed a few staggering breaths before vomiting again.

Spots were flooding his vision as he tried to gain back control of his shaking body, and he was faintly aware of hearing Gael give a mixture of grief, surprise, and denial. The words were just a jumbled mess along with his head.

Expelling his stomach did give an odd relief, managing to clear his head to white noise, a near constant buzzing that masked out other sounds. His still-bloody hand was trembling to keep a grasp of his phone, still holding it against his cheek.

The words were still muddled, and he barely registered them at all. All he could think about was Norman. His goofy, loving, cuddly Norman. He was being cut and disected in surgery, probably trying to remove shards of bone, doing their best to save whatever remained...

"...Why did you do it, Andy?"

Andrew's entire body seized up at the murmur that finally reached his ear. It was soft, sad... Abused...

"I thought we were friends..."

A break in the voice, on the verge of tears. There was a soft breath, cold against his cheek. Hair was standing on end, each muscle poised and screaming to flee.

"Why did you kill me?"

No. Make it stop. Make the voice stop. He wasn't there, he wasn't there! He was on that operating table fighting for his life! His stomach heaved again with cold realization, that this would be his punishment for his deeds. Haunted by the man he loved.

"...You're not real!!"

The scream was still echoing off of buildings and alleys just as the flip-phone was thrown to the ground, with enough force to snap the two pieces in half. It wasn't enough, though. He had to stop the voice from coming back.

"Leave me alone! Leave me _alone_!"

Blood and dirt-caked shoes stomped onto the small black device, and each crack only made him stomp harder. This repeated over and over, crushing every piece that he could find, trying to stomp out the voice. But it wouldn't stop talking to him.

"...Why did you have to kill me?"

* * *

"...Andrew?"

The normally gruff voice was soft as he slid open the glass door to the outside. The moon had already sank by this point, and dawn was breaking. It allowed little to lighten their spirits, though.

The man was huddled in the corner of the balcony, curled up into a ball, head in his knees. He could hear him crying, but had he ever truly stopped? Clearing his throat did little to alert him, and instead he seemed separated from existance entirely.

Taking a few more steps to not spook the man who could turn feral at any moment, the older man finally stopped a few feet away, glancing to the puddles of vomit and broken cellphone. His stomach twisted, but he forced himself to look away.

"Andrew," he tried again, this time firmer. The form twitched finally, as if pulled free from his nightmare before engulfing into another one. It took time, but slowly the head lifted up, exposing the blank, glassy blue eyes that nearly shattered whatever composure Jeffrey had managed to pull together. They blinked slowly, as if barely recognizing him, but it was expected at this point.

Jeffrey took in a deep breath to keep himself calm, even as his chest tightened with pain.

"...Andrew, the doctor wants to see us."


	3. Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The waiting room may as well be a second home to Andrew, because he won't be leaving it any time soon.

Andrew had seen x-rays before. There were numerous times during filming that someone would get a twisted ankle, a stunt double would get injured, but normally everything came out alright. There would be a hairline fracture here or there and they were back to work within a week or two, depending on where the injury was.

He had even seen Norman's x-rays before. It was practically a show-and-tell event whenever Norman started telling the story of getting hit by the semi in Berlin. He would normally show the before and after x-ray photos he had saved on his phone, pointing out where the titanium socket now sat. There would be conversations to how his vision was now just about as fucked up as it could be without being blind.

Even so, it didn't make looking at these scans any easier.

Swallowing down the sickness that tried to go up his throat took most of his concentration, even as the doctor was pointing to the numerous x-rays that he had lining the board. God, it was a mess. And this was even after they had cleaned up as much of the fragments as they could.

All six of them had stuffed themselves into the examination room; Andrew sitting on the padded bench, Jeffrey in the corner, Lauren and Danai sharing a chair to make more space, Greg standing beside Andrew, and Chandler staying in the back. It was claustrophobic and tense, and everyone was stiff as the doctor went through the details.

"...the occipital lobe was the point of the brunt of the damage, but the recoil also led to swelling and bleeding in the frontal lobe from impacting the skull. There are light fractures there. Bone fragments were found within the occipital lobe but have been removed." He pointed to the few specs in the profile view of the x-ray, but all Andrew could look at was the titanium plate.

It was what proved that this was Norman, and they didn't have them confused with another patient.

He glanced back towards the doorway that Chandler now leaned against, staring at the floor. They had asked him numerous times if he wanted to leave and go home, but he finally was 18 and allowed to do as he wished. They couldn't just send him home anymore because of the contract.

"-had to open the skull on several points to aleviate the swelling and bleeding."

He cringed at the words, forcing himself to look back to the x-rays.

They had already gone through the basics a few minutes ago when they had been led into this room. It had taken the entire ambulance ride up to stabilize Norman enough to get him into surgery, but he had been losing blood fast. They had lost him several times while they were waiting for the specialist, but brought him back each time.

The doctors had done all they could at this point. They had to keep the skull open to keep the swelling down, and the damage to the brain was unknown. They wouldn't know what the full extent of it would be until he woke up.

...if he woke up.

His fingers twisted within themselves, nervously fidgeting. Norman was induced into a coma to try to avoid the body going into shock. It would also keep him still while they waited for the swelling to go down enough to place in titanium plates.

If Norman was here, he'd probably say that they were intent on turning him into some cyborg.

The corner of his lips twitched and threatened to give him a smile at the thought, but it died within moments.

The words coming from the doctor faded away as he stared at the x-rays, seeing the openings in the skull either handmade or by Lucille. They were also worried about infection, as Lucille obviously was less than clean. The metal barbs, even though not rusty in the slightest, could still leave infection, not to mention the amount of make-up and fake blood splattered all into the wound.

Apparently the only reason that Norman was still alive was because of his bad aim. Had he hit Norman in the correct spot, he would have snapped his neck by the force and it would have been all over. Instead, he had hit the second thickest part of the skull, besides the forehead. Had he hit anywhere else than in the back of the head, the prognosis would be much worse.

...It was doing little to help Andrew feel better.

"The patient will remain in the induced coma for at least a week, but could take upwards of a few months depending on the amount of damage and the possibility of infection."

Months? Andrew swallowed hard to the point that it hurt, rubbing at his chin nervously. Even if Norman made it, the idea of hiding this for months... And they still had to tell the rest of the cast. Melissa was going to freak, and Steven... Then there was-

"...Shit."

His voice was only in a whisper, his eyes growing wide as the realization settled in the pit of his stomach. A few people turned to look at him, probably wondering if he was about to lose his composure again. Greg laid a hand on his shoulder in silent support, but still was on edge and ready to move if necessary.

Pale blue eyes looked up to those staring at him, the color dripping from his face. No one made a sound, letting him come to terms with his own thoughts. Even the doctor had paused and was waiting, having been expecting questions at any point. Everyone had been so silent until now.

It took time to remember how to speak again, not as his mind was already in a frenzy, and he once again felt sick to his stomach. Finally he managed to work the words out.

"...We gotta tell Helena and Mingus."

* * *

 

"...Sweetheart, I'm sorry about before. I just..."

_"It's alright, Andrew. I understand."_

What did he ever do to deserve a woman like Gael... He chewed on his bottom lip nervously, brushing his hand through his shaven beard. It was uncomfortable holding Jeffrey's phone, since it was a rather large smartphone rather than his sleek flip phone. He even had Jeffrey dial the number for him because of his cluelessness.

Any other time, Jeffrey would poke fun at his inability to advance to newer technology, but it had been nearly silent, and has been that way ever since Greg made the call to Helena. They were with Norman right now, having caught the first flight out.

The doctors weren't allowing many visitors, for obvious reasons. It was to ensure that there would be as little germs as possible within his isolated room. Jeffrey had prompted Andrew to go first, but he refused. He didn't deserve to see Norman, not when he needed his family beside him.

He glanced down the hallway, watching as Helena was being talked to by the doctor. Mingus was still in Norman's room, and the poor kid was heartbroken. He had never seen Mingus cry before, and Chandler had to be there to comfort him. The two were close, being about the same age and Mingus being the only one on set that Chandler can connect with. They would tease each other, play games in Chandler's trailer when he wasn't on set, and were close friends.

Neither of them would have expected that they would be reunited in such a way.

_"...I can still be there, Andy. I can catch a flight and have the nanny watch-"_

"No, stay with the kids. They're going to need you there." Gael still hadn't told their children about the accident, but she had already said that they could sense something was wrong after the phone call. Andrew was amazed that she hadn't broken down like he had, but she was always strong. She had to be in this strained relationship with him constantly being in America.

He glanced up to the clock in the waiting room, and it was currently a little past four. It would be nine in London, and the kids would need to go to bed soon. Chances are, though, that they wouldn't until they knew just what was happening. All Gael had said was that Dad was okay, and something had happened at work. They probably were already figuring out the rest...

After all, their father wouldn't get upset over just his job, and he wouldn't be such a way by any regular accident. And she refused to talk about Nanny Norman...

_"How is Helena?"_

"...'Bout as good as she can be at the moment. Think she's handling it better than I did. She had to deal with the scare in Berlin," he muttered softly, stepping back into the waiting room to keep out of earshot of Helena. Already guessing what his wife would say next, he huffed out a sigh. "Mingus is taking it really hard. Almost wish he didn't have to see..."

He trailed off, his words escaping him. He had managed to get the briefest glimpse of Norman through the doorway when Helena and Mingus had went into the room, and it was hard to pick out Norman from the mess of machines, tubes and wires. It was cold and sterile, and he looked so... lifeless.

Tears had been about to seep into his eyes until he awkwardly coughed to clear away his pain, rubbing his eyes to hide the traces. He had cried enough as it was...

It became quiet on the other side of the call, and it was slightly comforting. He could hear the TV on in the background, some cartoon the kids are watching. He guessed Helena was in the other room, the kitchen perhaps to keep an eye on them but hopefully stay out of earshot.

It was during this quiet moment that he heard little feet tap against tile floor, and his heart momentarily lifted. That tiny voice was on the other side, asking " _Mum, can we watch the Lion King?_ " It was her favorite movie, Matilda adored it. She had plushes in her room, and it made him proud to know that she loved the original more than the new "Lion Guard" crap Disney spewed out.

Gael had been just about to answer before he spoke up first. "Honey, could I talk to her? I... I just need to talk to her." He never truly had favorites, as both of his children were the light of his life, but Matilda was his little chatter box. After a long day at work, a particularly tough scene, or just feeling upset, he would call home to talk to his children.

There was a soft chuckle on the other side, then the phone went quiet again. There were voices in the distant, one being Gael telling their daughter that Daddy wanted to talk to her and that she could watch it only if she promised to go to bed right after. Matilda squealed in her delight before clamouring for the phone.

_"Hi, Daddy!"_

His breath caught in his throat, unprepared for the surge of emotions from hearing those two little words. They hadn't been apart for long, perhaps just a week to get to set, and already it felt as if they were a planet away. Tears were crawling into his eyes, a confusing mix of relief and heartache, and he had to clear his voice of the choking emotions.

"Hey, pumpkin... Are you going to watch the Lion King again?" he murmured, and his lips began to slowly form into something a kin to a smile. Matilda giggled on the other side, before hearing his daughter climbing up onto the couch. He could hear Gael go through their piles of DVDs, and the TV going silent to change it to the movie.

"How about I watch it with you?"

 _"Daddy, you can't do that! You're in Alana!"_  She still couldn't pronounce it... She was getting closer each time, and managed to get Georgia right. She was so proud when she came back from school to say that she could pick out Georgia on a map when no other kid in the class could.

"Then how about you tell me? I'll listen really hard and you can pretend I'm watching it with you, okay?"

A flurry of approval came, and the couch creaked again with Gael sitting beside their daughter. Arthur must have gone to bed at this point, he usually went to sleep before anyone else. It was just the three of them...

The opening lyrics were beginning of the movie just as he found a seat in the waiting room, leaning back and closing his eyes. He just needed a moment... A moment with his family, even if they were on the other side of the world.

By the time the first song was finished, tears were starting to make a new trail down his cheeks, and he allowed himself to let go of the present, just for a little while...

* * *

_"Daddy, why do they eat bugs? It's gross!"_

"They have to eat something, sweetie. Timon says it tastes like chicken, so maybe they're specal bugs?"

_"How come Simba gets really big so quick?"_

"He's growing up. You'll be big and strong one day too."

_"Like Mufasa?"_

"Mhm. Just like Mufasa."

_"...Daddy, why did Scar hurt Mufasa? Aren't they brothers?"_

"Mr. Lincoln?"

_"...Dad?"_

"I... Sometimes brothers fight... and..."

Andrew forced himself upright in the chair, glancing to the side to the nurse who stood patiently in the doorway. A hole was stretching in his chest again, swallowing up the momentary happiness. Sometimes brothers fight and... bad things happen. Maybe Scar didn't mean for Mufasa to die. Maybe it was... an accident.

"...Listen, sweetheart, I have to go. Can you give the phone back to Mum? I love you." His words were like driving through gravel, catching on themselves awkwardly. Andrew swallowed down his emotions again, intent on not letting his daughter know how much he was suffering.

_"Okay, Daddy! Bye-bye!"_

_"...Are you going to go see him?"_

Gael's voice was quiet and gentle, careful to not alert Matilda to her own words. Lion King was still playing in the background, and she was now singing along to Hakuna Matata. Chances are that she will fall asleep not long after this point; she usually does. Very rarely does she actually see the end of the movie.

"Yeah... I think I'm going to be able to see him. I'll..." he cleared his voice again, even as emotions choked him. "I'll have Jeffrey keep in touch if needed. I... I just..."

_"It's okay. We understand."_

"...Alright. I love you, Gael."

_"Love you too, Andrew. Send Norman my love."_

_Beep._

Always the usual ending to their conversations, but it led to a new flow of tears down his cheeks. His teeth gritted together, jaw clenched as he tried to swallow down a heap of toxic emotions. No, he needed to be in control. He needed to be _strong_ , even if it was just for Norman.

Jeffrey was sitting not too far away, hand outstretched to take his phone back. He glanced at the screen just long enough to see that the call had been going on for more than two hours. Andrew winced, before passing it back. The phone was probably close to dead at this point, but Jeffrey had been connected to a cord all day.

Already he was plugging in his phone, before tapping on the screen. Probably going to talk to his wife again.

His body felt anchored down into the chair, groaning at the prospect of moving stiffened muscles, but he managed to get to his feet all the same. The nurse was patient as she waited, with a gentle smile of assurance. How she could still smile when she had to watch so much suffering was beyond him.

His shoulders visibly sagged and his head dropped as he finally rose to his feet, following the nurse into the hall. Helena and Mingus must have already left, probably to situate a place to stay. They probably were going to go to Norman's apartment if anything else, but would it be too suspicious to have Helena and Mingus being the only one going or leaving the room? Especially with Helena dating currently.

It didn't matter right now, though. Not as he walked the quiet path past closed doors to other rooms of the ICU, other people fighting for their lives. Nurses bustled past them without a second glance. This was just a normal day to them.

It made Andrew want to scream.

How dare they act as if nothing was happening, that the world was perfectly fine. His muscles tensed at the thought, the first flare of anger that he felt yet burning into his chest. How dare they think of being with other patients instead of staying with Norman. No one else in this hospital mattered except for _Norman_.

"Take as much time as you need," was the gentle voice beside him that made him realize that he was staring at a room at the end of the hallway. There were no windows in any of the rooms, simply doorways. The time they spent filming here had been cramped and unorganized, but he could almost remember that this was the wing where they were filming.

Maybe the same room.

Raw emotion blocked his throat and prevented him from speaking as he took a step forward to the door and touched the handle. He was preparing for the worst on the other side, but as he finally pushed the door open, he realized that he could never properly prepare for what he was about to see.


	4. Antiseptic and Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew could have never begun to imagine seeing his best friend clinging to life, and nothing he could describe will ever explain the devastation.

Cshhh...

..hiiiisss.

Cshhhh...

..... _hIIIiisss_.

The slow, methodical sound of air being sucked in and out froze Andrew at the doorway, and wide blue eyes couldn't help but stare at the amount of machines shoved into a tiny room, nearly masking the bed against the wall. He had never seen so many monitors and devices and couldn't even begin to understand what they were and what they were for.

Cshhhh...

...hiiiissss.

A nurse was standing beside the bed, gloved hands carefully touching monitors and buttons and then writing down results. She didn't look towards the door, even as it awkwardly hit against his shoulder with a thump. Andrew stumbled in surprise, only to be trapped into the sterile environment as the door finally closed behind him.

Color drained from his face as he was forced into silence, unforunately taking in his surroundings and letting it burn into his memory.

Cshh...

...hiiiisss.

There were so many unnatural sounds in the room that it was hard to focus on just one. IV's were dripping clear fluid into tubes, another one leaking blood into a separate vessel. He could finally see the breathing apparatus, with tubes and wires stretched out over the bedspread and on the floor. A balloon was on the side, filling up before expelling, creating that awful dragging sound, pulling in each breath and pushing it back inside by force.

But there were so many machines...

More IV bags, wires all over the place, so many beeps and noises, nonsensical numbers and leaping lines. And then there was the noise that made his heart sink with each tune.

_Beep. ...Beep. ...Beep._

It was soft and slow, and almost in time with the mechanical breathing. It was the only sign of real life within the body on the bed, one still obscured by the nurse and machines that plagued his bedside. He could see his outline beneath the blankets, though, almost as if he had sunk into the bed. There were tubes stringing out from the sides of the bed, being pulled in by machines or others connected to bags on the side of the bed.

"Does that feel better, sweetheart? I hope so. I'll bring more pillows in next time to help support you better."

It was a gentle, almost angelic voice, and he forced himself to look away from the sterile tubes and wires to look to her.

Her white uniform was spotless around her hourglass figure, her blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail behind her head. A smile graced her lips, and she looked as if she was maybe 30 at the most. Thin, delicate fingers were tapping against the screen, but her gaze was held steadily onto Norman. It would make sense that there would be a nurse with him at all times, especially in such a delicate state.

Andrew wasn't one to stare at women, merely appreciate them. Danai, for example, was quite gorgeous whether covered in gore or in a dress, and the same went for almost all the women in their cast. This time, though, all he wanted was to push her away from his Norman.

A pang of envy ran up his body, and it managed to pull him out of his shock enough to take a few steps. The sound of his shoes were magnified against the mechanical noises and immediately gained the nurse's attention. She turned to face him, blinking bright blue eyes and exposing her plastic nametag; Angela. Of course, how fitting.

Her head tilted to the side, swaying her bangs before she gave him a gentle smile. "You must be Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Reedus is stable at the moment, so hopefully you will not be needing my assistance." She probably meant it to be reassuring, but all he could do was huff. She was still in the way of Norman.

Instead of moving like his body was itching to make her, she instead turned back to Norman's bed. "Now there is a nurse call button right above the bed. If he starts moving or anything seems amiss, press it. No matter what, someone will come in, no matter how petty it may be. That goes for if any of the cords or tubes are knocked loose."

Just get out of the _way_ already...!

"Norman, Andrew is here. I'll leave you two alone for a bit, is that alright?" she asked quietly, as if she expected an answer. Is she a god damn idiot? Norman was in a coma! Steps away from death! She was asking permission from a dead man! His teeth clicked together, heat brimming up within him. He had to get angry at someone... Anyone.

"Let me see him," was the grunt that came out much harsher than he intended, and it nearly made the nurse flinch. He wasn't here to think about her feelings, though. All he was here to do was make sure that his best friend was alright, and she was standing in his way.

She dipped her head quickly, pulling her charts to her chest tightly. "Of course," she murmured, her voice dropping to a meek level. Only then did she finally move from her spot beside the monitors, giving one last piece of advice before rushing to the door. "Talk to him, don't act like he isn't there. He needs support."

He barely heard the door click behind her as he was left to gaze upon his best friend. He almost wished that she hadn't moved at all.

The very first thing he noticed was how -pale- he was, practically blending in with bleach white pillows and blanket. The next was the darkness around his eyes, partially red and swollen even more than his normal puffy eyes. It was the bleeding from the brain that had pooled in behind his eyes, leaving disgusting bruises.

Then he saw the tubes.

There was some sort of monitor hooked up to the wall right behind his head, with multitudes of thin tubes and wires that soon disappeared beneath bandages that were wrapped firmly around Norman's head. Some of the tubes were slowly sucking in either red or clear liquid, pulling it up into the monitor where there was a small bag to deposit the fluid, almost like a reverse IV.

But they were _everywhere_.

Some flowed from inside the back of his head along with wires to track the brain waves, others in the top of the head, and more still in the forehead. They were all draining the internal bleeding and cerebral fluid that was pushing against his brain.

Andrew nearly vomited at the thought alone, and had to pull his hand to his face to hold himself back. He swallowed down his sick multiple times, his eyes watering again. Only then did he allow himself to look past the tubes and wires and take in the entire sight of what remained of his best friend.

There was a plastic mask strapped to his face, covering his nose and mouth, but there was a _tube_  forced down his throat. It left his mouth gaping awkwardly, and he could now see his chest rising and falling with each mechanical breath. Other than his chest, there was no movement. He was unnaturally still, as if he could already be dead.

Andrew forced his gaze to travel down from his face to his chest, gazing across the neckbrace that was unnaturally clean and staring at numerous patches connected to wires that strung back to monitors. A patch covered the tattoo on his chest, now listening to his heart instead. His arms were placed above the blankets, and they were riddled with needles and IVs. There were restraints against the arms, attaching them down to the railing as if he was an animal.

He stood there for what could have been minutes, gazing up and down the body that laid before him, as if waiting for Norman to suddenly glance up and smirk, calling him an asshole for messing up the shot. But there was just... nothing.

Instinct was pulling him in two separate directions. One begged him to leave, to run away from the truth of what he had done and what his best friend now suffered. The other was pulling him to the open chair right beside the bed, right beside Norman's head. A hand was turned upright, waiting for Andrew to take hold.

The next thing he felt was how cold that hand felt within his grasp and his heart fell into the pit of his stomach. His fingers were careful to not touch the IVs that were taped down, pushed into veins. There were numerous bandages from where they had tried to find a vein before, but the bleeding must have been too much...

The chair he sank in felt just as cold, hard against his body as if it was a punishment for being there at all. They shouldn't be here.

He and Norman were going to go out for dinner to celebrate being back on set. They would order the same thing they had since the first season; Norman a huge ass cheeseburger and chocolate shake and Andrew a chicken sandwich and salad. Norman would tease him for trying to watch his weight while he devoured his own burger.

Then they'd have to leave because too many people were starting to notice their presence, and he'd have to hop onto Norman's back on his motorcycle to flee from their fans.

They would go back to Andrew's trailer, Norman would hop onto the futon that he had and start doing his weird phone things with pictures and post them for the fans. They would talk and catch up, even if it had only been three days since they had last talked before returning to film, if that long.

They would go bother the rest of the crew, mess around with costumes, go explore the woods they had memorized six times over...

They wouldn't be here in the ICU, one of them barely clinging to life.

Andrew didn't realize he had started crying again until he felt the drops touch his hands that were now firmly encasing Norman's. They squeezed harder, as if it would pull him back to consciousness, but he forced himself to loosen his grasp when the needles shifted.

"N-Norman... I didn't-"

They were the only words he managed to whisper out before his throat closed up with emotion. He looked up to his face again, trying to ignore the thin tubes that were sucking up more blood, but there was no change.

It was then that he realized why Norman looked so unnatural, not regarding the numerous tubes and his paleness. They had -shaved- him. He could see patches of thin hair in some spaces between bandages, but it was shaved down to the point that it reminded him of Danai's extremely short hair. They had missed a few spots here and there, where the long hair managed to stick out awkwardly between gauze, but the rest...

Norman loved his hair. Obsessed about it. He would play with it constantly while they were waiting to film, and Andrew remembered running his fingers through his hair... Norman would fall asleep on the futon, curled up beside him, his phone still in his hands.

It was so soft... Even after make-up constantly had to stick fake blood and plaster it down to a greasy level, it still was so soft after he managed to rinse it out.

Norman would... He would curl up closer, in a strange level of peace and happiness that made Andrew wonder what he had ever done to deserve Norman as his friend.

But it was gone. And so was Norman.

Andrew wanted to hold him. He wanted to tell Norman how sorry he was that any of this happened. That he would change places with him in a heartbeat if it was possible... He wanted to wrap his arms around those broad shoulders and never let go, but... He just sat there.

The beeps continued on, stagnant. The breaths were long and drawn out, never changing. There was the dripping of IV fluids being slowly drained into Norman, feeding his lifeless body when he could no longer do it himself.

Finally he came to the point that he couldn't stand looking at the gauze, wires and tubes any longer, and forced himself out of the chair. Even then, he had a hard time in letting go of Norman's hand, taking great care to tuck it to his side and make certain no pressure would touch the needles.

His lungs were tight again and it felt as if no air was getting through. His mind was constantly racing again, running through the details of what laid before him, and how all of this was his fault...

All he needed was a little air. A little time. He just needed to breathe.

The chair wobbled on its legs by the force of him pushing it away, his hands already running through his thick hair to soothe his racing heart. There was a window covered by thick blinds on the right side of Norman, and he had to be careful to not touch any of the cords that scattered the floor.

Hands were already outstretched and fumbling with the cords, leading to feverish cursing when they refused to obey. Why did Americans demand to make everything harder than it needed to be? What was wrong with normal curtains? It took numerous tries on both sides of the cords before he managed to find a way to pull them up.

Almost immediately they fell back down, leading to a new stream of curses and his hands trembling with anger. Just as he thought he was about to snap and tear down the blinds with his bare hands, they finally obeyed and pulled all the way to the top and manged to stay there.

Light flooded into the room, making the actor wince. He couldn't help but look back to Norman, afraid that the light would disturb him, but there was no physical change. His heart sank, but he refused to think of it for long as he finally looked out the window.

He couldn't open the damn things, and even if he wanted to, he wouldn't risk any type of grime to touch Norman in his fragile state. Being able to look outside, though, was already doing much to calm him down.

Atlanta was so beautiful... It was a clear day, the sun beginning to sink into the deep afternoon. It would be night soon, and he remembered that he hadn't slept at all since the plane ride to Georgia. He had been planning on hitting the futon the moment they were done filming but...

He cleared his throat at the thought, instead staring out to the sky. There were birds, only a few clouds here and there... He glanced down to the parking lot that it overlooked. Most of the cars were gone at this point, with most visiting hours over and the graveyard shift about to begin for the doctors. There shouldn't be much going on, but-

His heart froze in his chest.

There were people. And vans. And more people.

They were all crowding around the entrance.

Some were holding large cameras, being from news sources. Others were just regular people, clammering for a way to get inside.

Then he spotted the small pod of people trying to force their way through the crowd. It was hard to see, but he could see the blue uniforms of security, and jackets were being pulled over the heads of whoever they were surrounding.

Then he got a glimpse of the long, brown hair on the thin young man, and the dark skin of a tall woman. They were being pressed against, cameras shoved into their faces that they tried to dodge away from, only to flee into a familiar parked car that sped away barely a moment after the car door was shut.

The people barely gave any chase, though, as they now returned to trying to push their way into the emergency entrance of the ICU.

Andrew felt as if his feet were frozen to the ground, and his jaw dropped. Cold realization was spreading throughout his body, and then he caught the glimpse of a few people looking up in his direction. The cameras then turned too, and the mob moved to try to get closer to their room, even if they were a few stories up.

Immediately his hands reached up and snatched at the cords, yanking and pulling in an attempt to pull the blinds back down. When that didn't work, he forced himself to dart to the side, abandoning the window entirely.

His back slammed against the wall, his heart thundering as he tried not to make a sound, even when they couldn't possibly hear. It didn't stop the dread that pulsed through his veins and a single thought ran through him.

They had been found.

Suddenly the door to the room slammed open, and Jeffrey stood in the doorway. His face was flushed as if he had been running, and was short on breath. That didn't cause him to hesitate as he growled out in a voice much too loud for the room.

"Andrew, we gotta go! If they find us here, we're fucked!"

It was obvious that Jeffrey was trying his hardest to not look at the bed, knowing that he may not be able to leave once he realized just how horrid Norman's condition currently was.

Andrew grew stiff, the prospect of leaving making him go pale. They couldn't leave Norman! But his stammering only came out an incoherant mess. It only frustrated Jeffrey as he stalked across the room, the door shutting behind him.

"I got my bike in the back, we go out the emergency exit and we get the hell outta here! You know what will happen if they find out!"

Unfortunately he did. An actor being severely injured and near death would spread through the world like wildfire, and it would only endanger all of them. Reporters and fans would be pounding at the door constantly to try to get in to see Norman, and it would only hurt their friend. The only thing they would be able to do was divert the attention away from the hospital, to make up some sort of excuse to why Danai and Chandler were there.

"I-I can't! I'm not leaving-..."

Wide blue eyes flashed back to the bed, to where Norman had not even flinched the entire time of this rampant conversation. He just wanted more time with him! What if Norman wouldn't make it and he wasn't here for him? All because he was too much of a coward to stay beside him...

But there had to be a way for him to stay.

"Come _on_!" Jeffrey hissed as he grabbed hard onto Andrew's wrist, his brown eyes ablazed with too many emotions to distinguish. He gave a hard yank against him, managing to pull himself off of the wall and stumbling forward.

His coworker had managed to pull him halfway across the room before Andrew suddenly froze with a jolt. No, he couldn't leave. If it was him on the bed and Norman in his position... He wouldn't leave him in his time of need.

His hand was yanked out of his grasp, barely able to meet the frustrated gaze of Jeffrey. His mouth was open to snap back at him, on edge to escaping the hospital as fast as they could before they were found. But Andrew refused to move, not as his hands clenched at his sides and he prepared himself to fight his way to stay within the room if necessary.

"...G-get their attention somehow. Drive. Make something up. I-I broke my ankle. But I'm -not leaving Norman-."

The strength in his voice was enough to startle himself, especially as he was still cowering while Jeffrey practically loomed over him. His coworker's eyes narrowed at him, his nostrils flaring. It was risky to leave Andrew in the hospital, especially when he could be seen at any point. If even one person saw him and told the media...

"...Fine. But you can't stay here forever." Jeffrey's grunt was hard with a mixture of frustration and bitterness, probably to knowing that he would not be able to stay as well. There was too much of a risk with multiple people being here, and one of them had to stage a reason to why they were at the hospital...

Reaching out quickly, Jeffrey effortlessly pulled the blinds shut, engulfing them in darkness once again. "Talk to the nurses, set something up. Do not leave unless you have someone with you. We gotta be damn careful about this or it's all over." His voice was lower this time, finally gaining control over himself. This was as far from logical as possible, to allow Andrew to stay in the hospital, but they had to pull the attention away from Norman.

Jeffrey had forced himself to not turn towards the bed as he rushed back to the door, tossing a glance back to Andrew before escaping the room. There were voices outside, and he could pick out Greg, Jeffrey and a few nurses. This was probably the last thing they were expecting to do for their shift at the hospital, but they had no choice.

Andrew wasn't going to leave Norman again.

Only once the voices started to slip away did he work his body loose, his legs trembling beneath him. There was now a new level of danger, and he would have to be out of sight. No more waiting room, no more hallways, no more balconies.

As he finally sat down in the chair again, he finally allowed himself to glance back to his best friend. He had not moved at all, not even twitched. His hand was still right where he left it, waiting for Andrew, and he did not wait a moment longer to delicately pull his hands around it. He gave it a soft squeeze just as he pulled his chair a little bit closer, knowing that he may not be leaving his chair for a long time.

"...I'm not letting you go," was his soft murmur, before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on the back of his hand. "You're stuck with me."

He could almost hear Norman's chuckle, just enough to distract him from the beeps and suction. No matter how many wires they strung through him or what they filled his body with, he was still Norman, still his best friend.

Andrew will be with him to the end. Like brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank absolutely everyone who is enjoying the story <3 And while the work's title may allude to a certain plot point ahead, I can almost guarantee that it will surprise you all ;3
> 
> Hugs and kisses and tons of butt fucks for you all <3
> 
> -J


	5. Slow Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every twitch is monitored, every flutter of the heart taken account. But life must continue on without him.

The room was dark and stuffy, and the tiger that was prowling mere feet away wasn't helping matters. Fingers tapped against his dirtied knee, the jeans worn through to create the gaping holes in the denim. A soft grumbling filled his ears that he forced himself not to flinch from, knowing that the thick chain would hopefully keep the tiger at bay.

...Maybe.

His fingers drummed away again at his knees, eyes flicking from the doorway to the tiger then back to the door. His other hand was scratching at his beard, turning a bit more snowy than he cared to admit. They didn't say that the apocalypse was good for your health and that certainly was true for aging.

Then the door handle finally twitched, uttering a soft creak to its age. Immediately the man sat up straight to the point of his body aching with the quickness, but he had to make a good impression. The first time had not... quite gone to plan.

The knob jiggled again, before finally turning clockwise a half revolution. The lock clicked, and the door finally opened.

"...We have much to talk about, Rick,"

Rick swallowed before standing up fully, trying not to flinch as Shiva gave a growl of disapproval. His eyes locked to the nearly black eyes, deep rings of tiredness surrounding them that aged the man by at least a decade more. He cleared his throat, then gave a dip of the head of both greeting and respect.

"We sure do, King Ezekiel."

The title tasted like acid to his tongue, reminding him too close to how titles could be misleading and just another cover for the term dictator. Thankfully, the wrinkles creased on the other man's face, turning to a bit of a smirk.

"Ezekiel will do. Now." The large man crossed the small room, soon sitting in the empty chair where the tiger stood in waiting. It gave a loud purr in greeting, extending herself to the king. He merely had to give her a pet on the head to appease her, and only once he was seated in his throne-like chair did he lean back.

"Tell me exactly how you plan to repay us for our men fighting your battle?"

" _Cut!_  Good job people, that's a wrap for tonight!"

The crew broke up almost immediately, turning off blaring lights and dismantling cranes that carried cameras that were probably worth more than a month of Andrew's paycheck.

The poor double for Shiva gave a loud sigh, reaching up and frantically unzipping the blue head cover for the morph suit he had to wear. He finally was allowed to sit properly instead of awkwardly on all fours, and was already getting to work on ridding him of the entire suit. No one particularly blamed him for wanting to get out of it as soon as possible, as the suit has a habit of heating up even when they tried to find the lightest material possible.

Many people were already pouring into the room to take down cameras and lights placed into the walls themselves, but it was within a matter of minutes that the room was cleared out and emptied.

Khary took no hesitation to pulling off the thick dreadlock wig, sweat brimming under his brow. It was another hot day in Senoia, and no one was quite use to the weather after half a year off of filming. Fans were turned on in the background now that there was no chance of the sound masking the scene.

Using the heavy trenchcoat sleeve to wipe his brow, he glanced back up to scan the emptying room. Already he realized that someone was missing.

Andrew.

It was no surprise any longer to how fast Andrew would flee once filming was done for the day, especially when the episode is surrounding him in near entirety. Sometimes it would be upwards of ten hours before he would finally be freed from production. It didn't matter if the sun was already down and there was still an entire hour to drive, he went at every opportunity and sometimes they wouldn't see him back on set until the very last minute the next day.

"How's he doing, anyway?" was the soft question he gave to a passing crew member, who at first merely shrugged. There was no need for explanation, everyone already knew the topic that was constantly heavy in the air.

"No news is good news, I guess," was the near constant reply to whoever asked, and in a way, it was good news.

The first month had been filled with sleepless nights for nearly the entire cast whether they had been especially close to Norman or not. His presence was constantly missed and it felt as if a hole had been torn in the middle of their family.

Losing a cast member was hard enough when they were killed off, but at least it gave some warning. They had the week to say their goodbyes, to celebrate, and wish good luck to whatever endevors they would have next.

But it wasn't like that. It never had been until now.

Passing his gaze across the clearing crew, he gave another soft sigh before shrugging off the thick coat. There was no use in asking any more; there would be the morning email to the cast and crew with updates if there were any. All they could do was hope that Andrew came home and wouldn't be forced to stay at the hospital pretending to be needing aid for his 'broken leg'.

Soon enough, Khary was the last one on set, as normal. Crew were going to return the equipment and go home for the night. The rest of the cast had already left a few hours ago with their scenes over, a rare event since they had been filming on overdrive.

Head offices just couldn't wait much longer for Norman... The decision to resume filming was one that no one agreed with, instead wishing to wait for Norman to recover, but they were losing money and fast. They could only rent parts of Senoia for so long, and cast and crew still had to be paid... It was either possibly cancel the show or continue without him.

The choice wasn't a fair one but easy to make. There was no way they could cancel the show without disappointing millions of fans and, even more than that, Norman himself.

After mopping away the sweat from his brow, he gave one last look to the darkened room before slipping out of the doorway. He did not expect to see anyone, as they had retired to their apartments or trailers.

No one felt comfortable without their loveable goofball.

\---

God, he was going to get a real broken leg if he had to keep this up.

Andrew massaged the balls of his foot carefully, wincing at the rawness. Make-up crew knew what they were doing when they decided to help Andrew keep a believable limp by adding a lump to his shoe, but damn did it _hurt_!

He had already chucked the cast the moment he got far enough into the hospital that no one could follow him, and it took work to loosen his ankle up again. It was almost pathetic how much they were trying to make the fans believe that he had broken his leg while filming.

Fake tweets from Norman's account to keep it from going stagnant, filling it with Andrew in a supposed hospital bed with a big ass cast that everyone had a hand in signing... 'Accidentally' letting the brace be seen through his pants or around his ankle during filming to give it a more realistic appearance... They were pulling out all the stops for this, and surprisingly enough, it seemed to be working.

Cameras barely followed him any longer, fans greeted him and asked to see his brace, which he gladly showed them, and everyone seemed to be believing it. It was nice to know that the fans cared so much. Maybe when this is all over, they could tell them what really happened.

...Probably not.

"Did you need some ice, Andrew?" came the chipper voice that he had nearly memorized at this point. Andrew barely had to look up before seeing Norman's nurse, Angela, handing him an already prepared ice pack. He gave her a ghost of a smile and nodded in thanks, already starting to bind it to his foot with left over bandages.

He was pathetically sitting on the floor to an empty examination room, just to make sure that no one tailed them. There were rags where he had been wiping off his make-up as fast as he could, not wanting to make a bad impression on Norman, because _obviously_  he could tell the difference.

Beside the rags was another vase full of flowers, and there hadn't been a day that went by that he didn't bring some sort of gift for his best friend. It was slightly petty and a bit of an annoyance to the other nurses and doctors that had to work around them, but no one had the strength to tell him otherwise.

Angela stood beside him patiently, as this had all become routine at this point. Only after he had properly bound his foot did she reach out and help him up, letting him lean against her to hobble his way to the door at the end of the hallway. Andrew had leaned over and scooped up the vase, making sure not to let the water splash out with his hobbles. They had figured out the perfect amount of water for these trecks, as the first few times resorted in water spilling out, followed by slipping, then ended with fragments of glass everywhere and now crumpled flowers.

The walk to his room seemed to get longer and longer every time he came, barely able to contain his heart hammering in his chest and the delicate hope he carried. Norman had been moved out of the ICU a months back, but they continued to keep him induced into the coma for his own safety. Healing was going to take time, and even now, there was still risk with his injuries.

There had been multiple times that they had considered waking him up again, but then his health would take a sudden dive. One time it had been a stroke, a seizure, and then a string of infections... There came a point that they had even been considering...

Andrew pushed the dark thoughts away as much as he could, and forced himself to hobble a little faster. Norman was getting better, he had to keep telling himself. He was more stable than he had ever been in his life, and it was only to ensure they were ready for whatever lasting effects the damage to the brain that they kept him under.

The door was finally upon them and Angela wasted no time in unlocking it and pushing it open. Already he was blasted by the smells that had been accumilating for the past weeks, and he had become perfectly content with the assault.

Norman's room literally looked as if a gift shop and a green house had sex, made a baby, and that baby vomited all over the room. Half inflated balloons were barely in the air at this point, to soon be replaced by a batch of new ones. There were rows and rows of flowers on the windowsill, and they each gave a degree of time passing. Some were wilting, others flourishing, and some just needed to be put out of their misery.

Then there was the mountain of stuffed animals and mementos that sat in the corner, and they had tried many times to reorganize his room, even having to move Norman himself, but they were giving up. They just kept coming in more and more each day.

It was a secret within the celebrities that Norman knew best, those he worked with on Boondock Saints, RIDE, and of course the Walking Dead. Only those closest to Norman knew of his condition, and the outpouring of love was staggering.

For their sake, not many of them actually came to visit. Not when there had been a near constant fear of losing him for good.

Angela swept the vase out of his hands before he could go too far into the room, another thing they came to learn. It left Andrew to limp his way to the bed that was almost lost within the amount of gifts he had received.

He would much rather trip over a stuffed squirrel than life support wires.

"Hey buddy, sorry I'm late. Filming went late."

Silence was his answer, but he would take it.

His chair was already set up beside the bed, having been upgraded to an office chair about a month ago. He fell into it with a heavy plop, letting out a groan of relief. It was the first time he had sat all day, and it was maybe an hour before dark. The wheels slid just a bit, nearly rolling over a stuffed bear that had fallen from its perch on the headboard of the bed.

The other nurses weren't as careful with the items as they should be, though they saw it as more of an annoyance. Angela was already starting to busy herself around the room, plucking out a vase from the mass and replacing it with the new one.

"Baby's Breath again?" she chided at him, throwing back a smile as her hand played with the small flowers.

"Not my fault they're his favorite," he sighed, soon scooting his chair that little bit closer to the bed. Only now did he get to have his full focus on Norman while Angela simply went about her duties, and his eyes scanned over his entire body like he did every time when he came.

It was a massive change compared to the times to where there would be more tube, cord and wire than Norman on the bed, and machines blaring wildly. In fact, nearly every machine had been evaculated from the room.

The heart monitor was quiet, simply showing the gentle beats of Norman's still strong. The tube that had been shoved so harshly down his throat had been replaced with the type that went under the nose, a great improvement. IVs had been trimmed down to just one for fluids, though they had resorted to a more direct way to give food; a tube straight to the stomach hidden beneath his checkerboard hosital gown.

They had to tell Andrew many times that it was just to get him more nutrients since they had him under much longer than they had originally planned. It still made his stomach twist at the thought of having a tube pushed into his best friend's stomach to feed him.

Angela had approached the bed at this point, tapping the IVs to make sure they were delivering enough fluid to the body, before turning towards Norman. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them as Andrew pulled himself up to his feet and leaned across the bed.

With the amount of time Norman spent in the bed, they had to ensure that they would not allow bed sores to begin spreading. That would only dampen his condition and make it incredibly painful for when they finally woke him.

Andrew situated his hands on Norman's hip and shoulder while Angela helped turn Norman onto his side facing the lead actor. It was always pleasant, and it made it feel more like Norman was simply asleep rather than comatose.

The nurse quickly slipped out the sheet beneath Norman, and with a little help from Andrew, managed to slip a fresh one beneath. There she began to check his skin, checking for any developing bed sores. He had a few nasty ones on the back of his shoulders a month ago, but those were now healing nicely. As they finally settled Norman properly onto his side, Andrew realized that there was a pleasant surprise.

His eyes were open.

His heart leaped with excitement, already scrambling to get the notebook that was on the bedside table. He nearly knocked over the picture of the Walking Dead cast, all flipping off the camera in a salute to Norman to get better soon. It got strange looks from Helena for sure, but she allowed it. Chances are Andrew would continuously sneak it back no matter what she tried.

"You're pretty chipper this morning," Andrew commented as he finally grabbed the notebook and flew through the pages. It was full of day to day notes of Norman's condition, something that most would see as obsessive, but Angela had recommended it. They said that it would help them identify either warning signs of his condition worsening or the exact opposite and improving.

But they had already explained to Andrew numerous times that opening his eyes didn't mean that Norman was conscious- merely on the way. There were three stages of waking from a coma - movement, thinking and interacting. Norman had simply begun the very first and was doing only the very basic. Chances are he simply couldn't see them, and when Angela approached and shined the pen light into his eyes, there was no reaction.

Andrew couldn't help but sigh in disappointment, already scribbling into the notes. They were nearing the end of the pages, which could either be a sign of his soon recovery or of this droning on even longer.

The notebook was tossed back onto the table, and Angela had closed his eyes to avoid them possibly drying out. There had been points to where he would walk in to see Norman crying extensively, but it was just because of his eyes growing too dry. _That_  had been a day he didn't wish to repeat any time soon.

Now giving Norman his full attention once more, he scooted the chair to the point that it pinned his legs between it and the bed. It never was close enough, though. Angela had allowed him to sit on the bed and sit beside him before, but after suffering a massive infection not long after they allowed him, it was banned.

That didn't mean he couldn't touch at this stage. Just not for very long.

With only a hint of hesitation, the actor reached out before delicately running his fingers along the gauze patch to the side of his head. It was now the only one that remained, having sealed the back of the head with a titanium plate. They would have to wait longer before they could replace the bone flap they had removed to assist the swelling.

But that wasn't what he was focusing on, not today. A smile was twitching on his lips as he let his fingers run past the gauze, instead starting to slip through the surprisingly soft hair that was just starting to grow back. It may be close to the length of season one Daryl, maybe even a little farther as they had not shaved him completely bald. Only the places where they operated did the hair grow much slower, some not even growing at all around the stitching.

Andrew let out a low whistle, the smile growing just a little bigger. "Damn, Norm... Maybe if you spent your effort healing rather than growing your hair back, we could get you out of here," he chuckled, but continued to run his fingers through the soft hair. It was almost like fur, not quite to the thickness but still soft. It reminded him of Norman's cat.

"You probably miss Eyes, don't you," he murmured softly, more to himself than even to Norman. While Helena and Mingus had been giving more than enough attention to the black mop of cat, it never seemed like it was enough for her. She would cry and cry... Curl up in Norman's bed but not able to sleep...

Andrew sat up in the chair, finally moving his hand away from his hair but instead delicately touching Norman's slightly exposed shoulder.

The months had been hard on Norman's body. He was losing weight, to the point that it was certain he would not be able to properly fit into his Daryl vest or maybe even load a crossbow for a long time. He was by no means a skeleton, but his cheeks were starting to sink again, and his skin so pale...

No sunlight had been able to seep in long enough to touch his skin, not when the blinds were almost permanently closed. It was as if the room didn't exist from the outside, the lights low and the curtains closed. They have had to move rooms before to keep from growing too suspicious, a bit of a strange caution but one they took nonetheless. They couldn't risk this getting out before they were ready.

His fingers traveled down his shoulder, following his arm as he tucked it gently to his side. The IVs were carefully adjusted to not allow them to tug on this new positioning. There had been points where there had been movement, where he would twitch or try to tug against the restraints on his wrists, but it was just a very faint reaction to stimulus.

It was little more than his body reacting for him.

Trying not to focus on how slow Norman's body was awakening was hard, not when they had guessed that he should have woken up a week ago. They were about to try adding some sort of drug to speed up the awakening process, but they were hesitant. It was hard to predict when a coma patient would recover, especially because of the blows to the head.

"How was filming today, Andrew?" the conversation started as Angela quietly circled the bed, checking her charts and the few monitors that remained.

"Long," he sighed in response, finally reaching forward and wrapping his hand around Norman's once more. "Barely got the chance to sit down all week."

Angela just nodded as she finished scribbling down some notes, before setting the chart back to the foot of the bed. Then the smile came back and she practically jolted back up to attention. "Oh, I just finished season two!" she cheered, clapping her hands together quickly. "They just left the farm and everyone found each other again!"

Perhaps Andrew shouldn't have told her about the Walking Dead... Probably the only person in this entire hospital who hadn't seen the series now was gushing about it nearly every day when she manages to finish an episode. It was charming at times, seeing her excitement or being brought to near tears, and she at least had not reverted to a complete fangirl.

He gave her a chuckle to humor her antics, and she already was rambling about her favorite parts of the season finale, about how the fire had destroyed everyone, the people they lost, how everyone managed to find their way to their safety on the highway... She would comment about something Norman did and praise him, just to make sure that he didn't feel excluded.

It would be interesting the further she went into the series, but he couldn't help but hope that they weren't still in the hospital by the time season seven popped up on Netflix.

"So how many more episodes do you have to finish?"

He blinked at the sudden question, pulling his gaze back up to Angela. She was back to the flowers, delicately picking through them to rid of any of the wilting ones. There were a few odd ones that seemed to have not aged a moment, and others were more than dead. They were tossed in the trash can that still held the load from yesterday.

"Uh," Andrew stammered, now unsure. "We have... a few more episodes before the season break but..."

But they had to be ready to either cut Daryl from the script entirely or include him at a moment's notice. Fans would notice immediately if their crossbow-wielding hunter disappeared for an entire half of the season, and they could only use a double so often to put him in the crowd. They still had to film the...

An awkward grunt ended the conversation, his eyes turning back to the man on the bed. His fingers intertwined with the others, then held still. They still had a long way to go...

Angela had gone silent at this point, realizing that she had crossed the unseen boundary. It left the only sound to be the flowers being dropped into the trash can, vases being moved, balloons put out of their misery...

Carefully he lifted the IV'd hand, and let his lips brush againt the back. They held there for a moment as he breathed in the scents of Norman, the earthy, Jack Daniels scent being nearly lost to aneseptic. Every moment longer Norman was here was another moment lost with his best friend.

"...We need our Daryl back."


	6. Out of Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything was going so well... It was about time it all came crashing down around them.

There was someone else directing today. Greg was taking a personal day to go to the hospital to get some paperwork cleared up. The AMC producers were starting to ram down their throats that they were updated about Norman's condition, and they were tired of hearing that there was no change, as if it was their fault.

It was another hot day in Senoia, and they were currently filming for the fifth episode. Granted that they were still saving gaps for Norman to return, they still were continuing faster than they wished. There were only a couple months until premiere night, and they were starting to worry that they may have to push that back.

The fans would be devastated and enraged, and the idea of Andrew breaking his leg wasn't going to be a good enough excuse. Chances are they would have to fake _another_  injury.

But that wasn't on their minds right now, not when they were within the dark shadows of the Sanctuary. The story was of Rick being 'invited' down there to see how things were run, and that they could possibly come to an agreement. Rick would be one of his leading men and sent the rest of his group to work and they wouldn't have anymore troubles. It would mean abandoning Alexandria, too.

They were filming in a dark stone room not too different from the cell that Norman had spent an entire week filming inside, but the differences was that this one had a table in the middle and two chairs. Two people were standing guard outside with the door locked, trapping two others on the inside.

It was negotiations. If you could call it that.

"I don't see just why you gotta be this way, Rick. I ain't asking for much, and I probably won't even kill anyone! They just gotta listen to my rules, follow my order, and I might even let you get a word in now and then."

Negan sat in one of the chairs, leaning back to the point that the back of the chair was now resting against the wall. His feet were tossed onto the top of the table, the picture of ease. That was the exact opposite of how Rick was feeling.

"Your _rules_  mean that all the women will be your wives and we'll be out on the _fence_ ," Rick growled back, sitting on the edge of his seat. It had taken a while to make him stop pacing like a wild animal, but he simply couldn't relax. Who knows what was going on outside the doors... Was Negan sending in Saviors to level their home?

What about Maggie? Michonne? _Daryl?_

"Nah, not every woman's gotta be mine... I don't need all of them... Just a few special ones." Most likely Michonne and Maggie, the strongest of their group. Owning them would be a primary sign of control over Rick and the Alexandrians.

"You know, I could make this a lot better for your group if you just hand _Daryl_  back over to me. I don't really want to have to kill him. A peace offering for what you did to me."

Rick's hand slammed down onto the table, fire within his eyes. "You will _not_  touch Daryl again!" he spat, leaping up from his chair and letting it topple to the stone floor. Negan's obsession with his hunter was getting out of hand.

"If I see you so much as _breathe_  on him-"

" _Lemme smash."_

Andrew blinked, all the lines vanishing in a moment with the intrusive sound. His mouth still hung open as he tried to locate the sound that had disrupted their scene. The crew seemed to be just as surprised by the sound judging by their silence.

" _Lemme smash."_

There it was again. And it was coming from...

"...Shit, that's me," Jeffrey hissed softly, tipping his chair to sit back properly and digging into his Negan jacket. "Sorry, shit, I thought I silenced that thing," he grunted as he continued to dig, the ringtone chiming in again.

Andrew let out a sigh, the emotions that had been building up suddenly crashing upon him, unable to climax properly. This was happening a lot more the later they went on in the season through filming. Everyone had their phones on them...

_Riiiiiing_

God damn, someone else? Did _no one_  have any common decency to at least put it on silent? Granted that Andrew had his tucked away in one of his numerous pockets, having to replace his own since it had been... smashed... But that didn't mean-

_Dooo dooo de doooo do dee_

...wait, that was his. It was his "God Save the Queen" 8-bit ringtone that Jeffrey had installed onto his phone as a joke, and he never could figure out how to get it off. He could feel it buzzing in his pants. He had been sure that he had set it to silent, he always did! Why would-

_Riiiiiiing_

_Dinga-ling-ling-ling_

_HEY DUMBASS YOUR PHONE IS RINGING_

_Everyone's_  phone was ringing. It was like a wave had suddenly overtaken the cast and crew, everyone digging into their pockets to silence their devices. But what on earth could be so important that all of their phones were going off? Was it another storm? A hurricane?

"...Jesus Chri- Someone get me my fucking bike!" Jeffrey suddenly exploded beside him, shooting out of his chair and nearly tipping over the table. His entire face had gone pale, something that had sent an icy shard into his heart. The only thing that could make Jeffrey like this...

Why their phones were going off...

Norman.

As if only just remembering that Andrew still existed beside him, Jeffrey reached out and grabbed a hard hold onto his wrist, the same he did many months ago. "We gotta go, now!" he shouted, while most of the cast and crew were still trying to figure out what the message was.

"What happened?!" was all he managed to cry out as he was pulled mercilessly through the crowd, already knowing that Jeffrey's bike wasn't far. They were going to go for coffee after the shoot. Something told Andrew that those plans would have to wait, not as the icy shard started to rip and tear into his chest, leaving a ragged hole.

No, something happened. Something bad. Something _horrible_.

The helmet had been strapped onto his head before he got an answer, every second making his heart race faster. Jeffrey grabbed his head by the chin strap, pulling it up to meet his eyes. The paleness was still there, his eyes wide, and there were _tears_.

"They were putting his skull back together. Something went wrong. They think Norman had a stroke, and it's _bad_."

* * *

It had been a while since they had been back to this room. By this point, they thought they could skip past this point and be on the road to recovery. The last time had been... two months ago? Yeah, back when he had an infection and they had to flush out the wounds, but because of the infection being nearly on the brain...

Andrew swallowed harshly, pulling his face back into his hands.

They thought he was finally getting better. The doctors had said that the worst was behind them, and that he would wake up soon. He was on the verge of waking up, even. Docs said just a couple more days and he would be fully aware... But then they decided to replace the bone flap into his head.

What the _hell_  did they do to fuck it up!

His fingers twined into his curly hair from the bangs, tightening into it and giving it a fierce tug as if he would pull it from the roots. They were _so close!_

The waiting room was just as full as the first time, even if a few people were changed. It was him, Jeffrey, Danai, Chandler, Mingus and Helena. Greg was away at this point after giving them word to what had happened, probably off to report to AMC.

It was sick how use they were to waiting at this point. Jeffrey had gone down to the cafeteria to get their usual food, Danai talking to the nurse in an attempt to keep herself calm, and the other nurses already knew just why they were here. Mingus and Chandler had gone down a few levels to where they had met a teenager recovering from a car accident to play Pokemon with.

They had _friends_  in the hospital. That was how often they were here.

And... they wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him.

Yeah, that little thought hadn't left his mind for a moment. There would be nights where he would wake up _screaming_  for Norman to stop him, for anyone to stop him. When he would be frozen and forced to stare into the gaping hole in the back of Norman's head, blood gushing, his eyes glazed and sightless just like a walker...

Then there were the nightmares that he came back as a walker. Rotting, jaw falling off, blood dripping, his eyes... His eyes...

His phone vibrated in his pocket, but he ignored it. It was Gael again. She was asking how it was going, if anything had changed... Usually she knew when he didn't answer that there was no change. She was use to him not answering, unfortunately. He just... needed his space.

"Andrew?"

The soft voice spoke before him, and the tone was achingly familiar. All he had to do was just slightly look up to see Angela slightly knelt down to meet his eyes. She had a tight frown, her brow creased with worry.

"...They've stabilized Norman, but he can't handle many visitors. I can only take one at a time." Her voice was still quiet, as if to not startle him too much or the others still waiting. Andrew swallowed again to the point that it hurt, not wanting to hear the words 'stabilized Norman' again in his entire life. He shouldn't need stabilizing. He should be _fine_.

"Helena already said that she needs some time, so..."

She and Mingus had been out at the time when they got the news. They were out shopping to stock up on food since they had yet to leave Norman's apartment, and they were beginning to think that it may become a more permanent home. Soon enough, Helena was going to have to go back home to feed Eyes, then possibly bring overnight gear...

There was no use in trying to tell her to go first. Jeffrey would want to wait, too. He didn't... do well with seeing Norman like this. After the first couple times, he only waited in the waiting room for Andrew to come out and give him a quick rundown, or pass a message to Norman.

A soft sigh slipped from his lips, and his chair groaned with his joints in standing back up. He had no clue how long they had been waiting already, he hadn't checked the time when they got to the hospital. They were too busy trying not to break down from the idea that after all this time, they could still lose Norman.

Finally releasing his hair from his death grip, he stood up straight and looked back to Angela. She was holding the chart to her chest just as always, but the sadness in her eyes... She knew more than he did, being his personal nurse. She had been by his side this entire time... Was it worse than they thought?

She nodded her head towards the doorway and quietly led him out. The hallways were near silent, a quiet day in the hospital. There weren't too many emergencies, and they had only seen one or two people being rushed down the hallway.

They had moved his room back to ICU. God, he hated this part of the hospital. It was so sterile and quiet, only broken by sudden blaring machines signalling a life teetering on the edge of death. He had lost count of the lives he heard being snuffed out in this hallway... It practically reeked of death.

As Angela finally opened the door to his room, his heart deflated and fell out of his chest.

The tubes, the wires, machines, monitors... The horrible sounds of the ventilator, the heartrate, the dripping of IVs, they were _all_  back.

Norman was surrounded in this sterile room, and everything personal was gone. All the flowers were in his old room, the presents, the cards, balloons, the picture of the cast and crew, the notebook... It was just sterile and lifeless. Just like him.

The gauze was back, thicker and with bandages wrapped around his skull. There was still a bit of bloodstain that had seeped through, but the bleeding wasn't what they were worried about.

"...He flatlined while in surgery. They still don't know what happened, but they think it was a stroke. We still don't know what that will affect, but they took him off the medicine to keep him induced to see if he will... wake up."

If? If he woke up? There was a chance that he _wouldn't_?

"I can give you an hour at most," she murmured, her voice getting quieter and quieter. There was a near shiver in her voice, something that she tried to stuff away. It must be hard for her, growing close to a patient that was doing so well...

Finally the door closed behind him and she was walking back down the hall. He was alone with Norman, or whatever was left.

Once again, he pulled up the chair right next to his friend, trying to move his way through wires and tubes. Only once he sat did he gain a good look at Norman, and immediately wish he didn't.

His skin was pale again, near white. He looked fragile, weak to the point that he could be broken just by touching him. His hand was lying limp on the top of the blanket just as before, needles pushed under the skin and taped down to not allow them to be moved, and he felt like he was in the same place months ago.

"...What are we going to do," he murmured softly to the man that laid lifeless beside him, his fingers intertwining with Norman's. They were cold within his hand, just as before.

They were truly back to square one, and he was too close to losing Norman again.

* * *

_"Hold him down! Keep his head still!"_

Voices were merging together, but the lead one managed to cut through the others. It did little to mask over pathetic cries for mercy, for whatever God was listening to save the man convulgeing on the bed.

Nurses were on both sides of the bed, trying their best to hold down the jerking limbs while another was pinning the man's head to the side, attempting to keep his airways clear from the vomit that had nearly choked him. It was as if the frail body had gained the strength of a monster as horrific sounds came from him, a snarl twisted by a strangle.

A male nurse was forced to hold Andrew back, having overpowered the two females that tried to separate him. He was trying to say that it looked worse than it actually was, that it would be fine, but how could _any_  of this be fine?!

Each second felt slower than the last, with a nurse losing grip of one of his arms that immediately started tearing and scratching at an unseen enemy before she managed to pin it down again. It was as if a demon had replaced Norman.

Only after what could have been close to a minute since he had begun seizing did the muscles start to unclench. His limbs were growing limp again, which were almost immediately bound again. A nurse was trying to wipe away the remains of the vomit that was across the pillow, having just barely getting his head down to the side before he had the chance to choke.

The beastly sound was quieting, turning more into a soft groan. One by one, the nurses began to move their way off of the body, only for the doctor to shift through the bodies. With quick motions, he checked the monitors for the heart rate that was beginning to calm again, then taking a look at vitals.

He opened Norman's mouth, checking for a bitten tongue or broken teeth, and closed it again. He shifted to the arms and legs and examined them for strains or possible breaks, bruises and cuts. Only after that did he carefully tilt Norman's head to look straight up, then opened his left eye. The pen light clicked on before being shined into the eye. There was no reaction.

Then he switched to the right, repeating the motion. He froze. The pen light clicked off, then turned back on. Off. On.

At that same time, from the corner of his eyes, Andrew saw his hand twitch. There was a sound. A harsh breath that came from the body, then a cringe.

"...Get him out, _now_."

Arms grabbed him by the shoulders without hesitation, practically throwing him out of the sterile room. There wasn't a moment for him to beg them to let him stay inside, not even a chance to get a better look, because the door was already slammed into his face.

Andrew barely managed to catch himself against the wall to keep from stumbling to the ground. He still couldn't make a sound, his mind spinning to try to understand what was happening now. It was quiet on the other side of the door, soft murmurs.

All he could think of was that he -knew- he saw him move. It wasn't the seizure, it had to be over. Norman _moved_.

But now... he was outside. Andrew was forced to wait once more while Norman's life was hanging just out of reach. His body shivered against the wall, tingling and numb with tears still sliding down his cheeks. They were keeping him away from Norman when he needed him most.

The one thing he knew, though, was that he wasn't going anywhere until they gave him answers. So he slowly moved down to the floor, pressing his back against the wall and sat, listening to the murmurs.

I'm right here, Norman. Just... stay with me.


	7. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason for everything, and we aren't supposed to understand why. Empty words to those who are the reason behind the consequences.

Nurses and doctors had grown to ignore the man sitting in the hallway. Trying to tell him to go back to the waiting room were countered with a glare or a grunt or even nothing at all. Even the threat of bringing in security wasn't enough to make him budge. He would only move and press himself against the wall if someone was being moved into or out of the ICU, but never leaving the hallway.

He wouldn't leave until he saw Norman. He wouldn't accept being simply told that everything was alright now, not when he could have -sworn- he had seen him move. That couldn't have been a mistake.

Every time that the door cracked open, Andrew jolted up to his feet to the point that it made his head spin, but it would only be a nurse slipping out. The doctor was still in the room, and so was Angela. Those were the only two people who mattered.

Even riddling the nurses with questions didn't seem to help, simply giving basic answers to him being stable. They were hiding something from him.

Thankfully he had forgotten to take his phone out of his pocket when he had gone to see Norman in his room, and passed the time by texting Gael, until she had said that she just couldn't stay awake any longer. It was deep into the night in London, and Andrew promised that he would only call if it was something important.

It was no secret that this had been a strain on Gael just as much as Andrew. She adored Norman in the small visits that he managed when he would be in England, and the kids loved him too. He didn't gain the name "Nanny Norman" without a reason. She ended up telling the kids the day after the accident, saying that Daddy wouldn't be home for a while... That he had to take care of Norman.

He wouldn't _have_  to take care of Norman if he didn't nearly kill him.

His phone vibrated again. Jeffrey. Sliding his phone out of his pocket, he flipped it open and took a look at the messages. This would hopefully kill a bit more time as he waited...

_Jeffrey: helena n mingus went home_

_'Yeah, it's gonna be a while.'_

_Jeffrey: u okay?_   
_nurse said it got nasty n u saw everything_

_'I'll be alright.'_

_Jeffrey: dont sound too confident._   
_hey, hes been through worse shit_

_'...Like?'_

There wasn't an answer for a few minutes. Because of course there wasn't. Even after all the accidents Norman had during his life, motorcycle accidents, the semi in Berlin, it never was this life threatening.

_Jeffrey: come back 2 the room, i got u coffee_

_'I'm not leaving until they let me in.'_

_Jeffrey: k, im drinking it then. nurse got donuts 2_

_'Your texting is attrocious.'_

_Jeffrey: :p_   
_u should see when i get drunk_   
_norms got some saved on his phone_   
_cant figure out his unlock code tho_

_'...You're going through his phone?!'_

_Jeffrey: :p_

_'He's going to kill you.'_

_Jeffrey: good, itll make him wake tf up_   
_tell him i found nudes_

_'Why am I friends with you.'_

_Jeffrey: gonna leak his nudes_

_'You sure he hasn't done that himself?'_

_Jeffrey: ..._   
_gdi._   
_...made u laugh didnt i._

God damn it, he did. Andrew was only then aware of the smirk that had managed to cross his face, on its way to twitching into a smile. Jeffrey always knew how to lift anyone's spirits, even in the most dire of situations. It was half the reason to why he and Norman connected so easily, being goofballs in the most depressing of situations.

_Jeffrey: hey, hes gonna be ok. just takin his sweet ass time_   
_doesnt want to go back to work yet_   
_probably the longest break hes had since boomcock_

_'Boondock.'_

_Jeffrey: i knw what i said._

A dry chuckle was won. Andrew never fully watched the movies, they were a bit... vulgar for his tastes. He just didn't get them. Jeffrey was quite the fan, though. He was caught quoting a line a bit more often than he cared to admit and always made Norman either embarrassed or burst with pride. Possibly both.

Halfway through another response, probaby to chastize Jeffrey for his horrid puns, the door opened just a crack. The voice that slipped through the opening made his body seize up, his face draining of color.

"...Mr. Lincoln?"

It was never good when Angela spoke to him that way. They had gone to first name basis within days of tending to Norman together, and only when she directed him professionally did he know that something had to be wrong.

Pocketing the phone, he nearly stumbled to his feet to meet her at the doorway. Yet she held it close to her body, not yet allowing it to be opened all the way. She was still denying him access inside. Her lips were in a tight line, as if trying to be as neutral as she could be.

There were no tears, but she still seemed... distressed. Even before he had the chance to ask what had happened, she was quietly explaining.

"Mr. Reedus has been reacting to stimulus, and gained consciousness. But we had to put him back under because-"

_"You put him under?!"_

His shout echoed through the ICU, but he could not contain it. After all this begging and pleading for Norman to wake up, wondering that he may never open his eyes again, he _finally_  starts to wake up... And they put him back under?

Anger was brimming in his voice as his body stiffened up, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed. His hands clenched at his sides, and he reached forward and grabbed onto the door, as if about to rip it off its hinges to allow himself access. His hand ony darted back when he caught the obvious flinch from Angela. She practically held the door as a shield to her body, barely half of her body slipping through the crack as if she would have to hide away back into the room to escape his anger.

Realizing that he didn't want to scare off the only one that could give him answers about Norman's condition, he forced himself to suck in a deep breath and practically hissed it out. This did little to calm either of them.

"...Why... would you put him back under...?" was the question that was strained through his teeth, cold eyes staring down to the woman maybe 2/3rds his size. If she could possibly make herself look any smaller, she would probably disappear into the door itself.

"That's _enough_."

A large hand grabbed the door by the edge, forcing it open. Angela nearly stumbled out into the hall but quickly retreated back inside of the dark room. Now standing in the open doorway yet still blocking all view to the inside was Norman's doctor.

He was older than both of them, about Jeffrey's age and was probably one of the best for hundred of miles. It was also seen that he would not take kindly to those who frighten his nurses.

Once again trying to swallow down his aggression, Andrew straightened his body and took a step back. At least now he could get some answers.

"The reason we put Norman back under is because that is the last environment we'd like him to awaken to, surrounded by nurses with syringes, doctors, and _you_  losing your composure."

Andrew flinched, tearing his gaze away from the doctor. It wasn't a lie that Andrew had been thinking that he was about to see Norman die before him... Awkwardly scratching the back of his head, he gave a slight nod.

"He will need calmness for when he wakes up. Staying under this long will leave him frightened and we have yet to see what the damage to the brain may have caused."

Of course, that too. Now was the time that he wished that he hadn't done his research on the brain... While there may be no large physical impairments from where he had been damaged, there was the chance of blindness, damage to the other senses... Then the frontal lobe possibly being damaged...

Shuddering at the thought, he only looked up when he heard the door squeak on its hinges and being opened just slightly. The doctor had stood to the side, now allowing him access into the room. "If all goes accordingly, he will only be under for a short period of time. It would be best to stay with him until then. He will need those closest to him to help explain the situation."

It had been so long that he had thought they would not get to this stage, he had nearly forgotten that there would be the aspect of explaining to Norman why he was riddled with needles, why he would remember nothing of the past few months, why he was there in the first place... It may as well be himself to explain as some sort of sick punishment.

After all, he had been the one to put him here.

Not able to meet the doctor's eyes through the shame of his outbursts, he quietly slid his way into the darkened room.

Already he could see the machines that surrounded him, but most seemed to have been either unplugged or turned down. The heart monitor was the only audible machine, but there were still IVs draining into his body. The pillow that had been stained with vomit had been replaced thankfully, and other than his color looking a little pale, it looked as if nothing had happened at all.

Mostly because he never stopped looking so limp and lifeless.

His chair was pulled back up to Norman's right side, having nearly been thrown against the wall to let the nurses grab a hold of Norman. There was some shuffling at the other side of the dark room, and he could only guess that Angela was keeping herself busy in an attempt to give him space.

God, he felt like an asshole... Even more than usually, if that was even possible.

Settling down into the chair, he glanced blankly to the other side of the room, watching her sillhouette. "...'M sorry, Angela, I didn't mean to snap," was his guilty apology, and her form halted for just a moment. Her blue eyes gazed back to him, slightly dull, but then she managed to pull a smile in an attempt to brighten his own spirits.

"If you think you're the only one who's ever snapped at me, then I have a few stories to tell you."

She giggled, but soon glanced away. It was probably another farce, trying to give off an aura of positivity in the off chance that Norman could feel it. It felt like an eternity from when he had been studying all night, pulling up article after article of how doctors tend to coma patients... How to act around them, how to support them...

First lesson was to never ignore their presence. Second was to be uplifting. Don't let them know that their chances are slipping away, even if they truly are moments away from death.

There were probably other rules, like keeping the book with a timeline of his vitals, but they didn't matter as much as the first two rules.

Heaving a sigh that felt like it was about to collapse his lungs with the heavy emotion, Andrew reached out like he had so many times before and let his fingers curl around Norman's hand. There was a slight amount of warmth, but he wouldn't get his hopes up.

This would be the moment where they would soon know if their best friend was still there at all... Or had died the moment that the bat smashed into his skull.

* * *

The first sign that something was wrong was the warmth that escaped his fingers. The second was a muttering, just outside the realm of his consciousness. The third was the sound of something hitting the floor.

The fourth sign that actually woke him up was his head slipping off of the hand he was resting it on and smacking his forehead against the metal railing of the hospital bed.

It had been a long time since he had accidentally fallen asleep at Norman's bedside. When it would be too late to go home or he was too tired to even think about driving himself, Angela would lower the bar to let him rest on the bed. Once or twice, before his massive infection, he was even allowed to sleep beside him...

Doctors were hopeful that the contact and connection would help bring Norman to awareness, but it instead brought germs to his wound.

After that, he just awkwardly sat on his chair and rested his head down on the bed. He would wake up with his back aching like death, his shoulders stiff, but with the instant knowledge that Norman had made it through another night without incident.

It was _supposed_  to be what happened, anyway. He felt the shoulders and his back ache in response to his bad sleeping decision, but as his vision finally cleared from both sleep and hitting his head onto the metal railing...

The bed was empty.

The chair nearly tipped back onto the floor with how Andrew jolted to sudden attention, eyes wide and hands reaching out towards the empty mattress.

What happened. What did he sleep through. Did they take him away? All he could think about as his hands frantically searched into pillow and blankets, as if he could somehow be hiding from his sight, that there was only one reason that they would take him away without waking him.

"N-no, Norman!" was the whisper that managed to slip from his trembling lips, tears already rushing into his eyes. No, he couldn't be dead. They said he was going to be fine! He was waking up! He would have heard something, felt something, Angela would have told him...!

Oh god, the thought of Norman...

All alone, his body cold as ice...

And he didn't even say good-bye...!

A sob choked him, his hands no longer searching but shaking instead. There was an IV line still on the bed, the needle still slick with blood. No longer attached to Norman. Not there to keep him alive.

Helena will never forgive him. Gael will never forgive him. _Norman_  will never forgive him.

Norman was _gone_.

The thought was too much for him as he crumpled hard against the side of the bed, his face pressed into cooling blankets that still lightly held the scent of his best friend. But it was coated in the scent of blood and antiseptic, and the last memory Norman will ever have would be him killing him...

Tears streaked down into the blankets, and he let out every gross, ugly sob he had been holding back for the past few months. He had killed his best friend, and made him suffer for months for his own pathetic hope to see him alive again... He should have known that when Norman's body continuously failed that he just was trying to die. Trying to leave the pain. And he wouldn't let him.

Norman's name was sobbed into the sheets beginning to grow wet, his fingers clawing into the blankets as if he could find one remnant of his best friend. A breath of his scent, anything.

But there was nothing. Nothing was left of Norman Reedus.

It was only after sobbing for what felt like hours that he finally managed to catch the sound of a gasp. It was probably Angela. Or Jeffrey. Or Helena. Someone would find him. They would scorn into him for what he had done, punish him for his sins.

They would tell him to leave, that he didn't deserve to be in Norman's final resting place. They would need to mourn and to have his killer in their sights...

But then that sound came again. And again. And it was the same tone. It was over and over...

Only on the sixth time did he realize that it wasn't someone on the outside looking in. It was someone gasping. Breathing heavily. Trying to speak. Someone in this room.

The thought of Norman haunting him with his final moments was already deep in his thoughts as he tried to wipe away the tears in the sheets. He needed to tell someone. If he was hearing this in his head, then it could be that his fragile sanity was already breaking.

He could _swear_  that he could hear someone...

Then the hand reached up and clawed into the sheets on the other side of the bed, the hand bloodied and thin, pale and trembling. All thought ceased as his breath caught in his throat, staring at the hand...

Then at the X X X in between the knuckles.

"... _Norman!_ " was the screech that he would later be surprised to know _didn't_  alert every nurse and doctor within a mile of the hospital. Using the bed as leverage, he practically threw himself around the foot of the bed, and nearly stumbled over the mass that was collapsed onto the floor.

There was blood droplets that touched the tile, some still smeared across the checkerboard hospital gown. Random IV lines just managing to hang on were dangling over the side of the bed and collected to the hand still struggling to gain a grasp on the bed. The other hand was clutching at his head, fingers tangled within the gauze as if trying to scratch it free. His legs were awkwardly splayed out, still attempting in vain to gain the strength to stand.

But what caught his attention were the eyes.

The wide blue eyes that were overcome with desperation, bewilderment, fear... but _alive_. And they were looking at him.

It was a moment that seemed to gather them into a spell, already starting to calm the mass twitching and struggling. The breathing that had been in panicked pants was trying to smooth, and the eyes did not blink away. His jaw hung agape, as if he was just as surprised as Andrew was that he was there.

But Norman... Norman was _there_. Awake. _Alive_.

Andrew couldn't force a word from his lips as he collapsed down beside the body, already reaching out and desperately pulling the other into his grasp. Norman was _warm_ , he was _moving_.

Sobs had managed to silence themselves, even as tears still dripped down his face and scattered across the hospital gown. It was a quietness that had managed to claim Norman as well as he felt his hands grap onto his shoulder and shirt, fingers twisting within the fabric.

Blood was dripping down the hand that the IVs had been yanked out, something that surely would need to be tended to, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter if Norman was trembling in his arms from weakness, barely managing to hold onto him with failing strength. It wouldn't matter if Angela came and took Norman away from him again, to put him to sleep, give some bullshit reason to why they would need to be apart.

Because he was holding Norman, his best friend. The man that had occupied his thoughts from dawn to dusk, never leaving. Every prayer had been answered in just this one moment and he wouldn't even think of letting it end...

Then Norman gave a whimper, and Andrew realized that he was nearly crushing the frail man in his arms. Even now he could feel how much weight Norman had lost, his hip bones digging deep into his thighs, his ribs heaving against his own in fast breath.

Loosening his arms just enough to give Norman some room to breathe, he finally moved one hand and pulled it up against Norman's cheek. His jawbone was sharp against his palm even more than normal, but it made no difference as he gently moved Norman's head up to look at him.

Even in the darkness of the room, the blue eyes seemed to be glowing. They locked with his, and it was almost as if they were back on scene with The Walking Dead. All it took was a glance to tell everything.

That everything would be alright. That Andrew would never leave. That it was okay to be scared...

The gravely voice managed to wheeze from his lips, so low that he almost thought it was a growl of pain. "W-wha... h-how- ...R-Ri..."

"Shh... It's okay now, Norm. We're fine, you're fine... Everyone's fine, and you're going to be fine," were the words that tumbled out unexpectantly, and it was then that he realized that he was smiling more than the last few months combined. His heart was soaring in his chest and the warmth that flowed through his system...

Carefully touching the back of his head, being oh so careful about the scars and stitching that still lined him, he carefully tucked Norman's trembling head into his chest.

"Everything is going to be okay..."

"..R-r... R-ri..."

Norman continued to stutter against him, yet the hands clenched harder into his shirt. His voice still was at that gravely pitch, but he hadn't consumed water physically in months... How he could even speak was unbelievable.

But what he didn't believe was that the stuttering continued. Then it started to form into a single word.

_Rick._

_Rick._

_Rick._

"...R-rick... where are... is he... N-Ne..."

A few more trembling pants passed, causing his hair to stand on end. Sickness was climbing up his throat as the cold realization began, but there had to be some mistake... Norman was just... tired. But then the next words sent his blood to rush ice cold.

"...W-where's Negan. W-where are we...?"

It was then that the door was open, and he caught a startled gasp, followed by the cries for a doctor.


	8. Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norman's awake. But that's the only certainty left.

Jeffrey's voice carried quite an impressive distance, Andrew realized, because he could already make out the swears and curses a few rooms away. The long walk back to the waiting room had been filled with nurses stopping him, asking if there was something wrong, but all he could do was walk past them.

Chances are he wouldn't be able to form a response no matter what they asked him, even his own name. Every thought he could fathom had been lost ot the emptiness within his mind. It had become much like a cave, echoing every word into it was one bland pitch of nothing.

He must looked just as he felt judging by the draining of color from each of his coworkers' faces as he nearly stumbled into the room. It was as if all of his limbs were slowly falling off the entire way back to the waiting room, his arms dropping off first, his feet... Just wandering almost aimlessly.

The blood on his shirt had already dried, having to watch in an attempt to keep his best friend calm when there was a rush of nurses and doctors to meet them on the floor. It was probably exactly what the doctor wanted to avoid, not when they had been uselessly telling Norman that everything was fine, that he was in an accident, that he had been unconscious for a long time... As if just stating the facts would make him understand.

They at least were able to ignore the ramblings that poured out of him, asking questions no one would answer him... Where were they. What happened. Where was everyone. The other question he was surely asking himself was how he had gone from an apocalypse that had destroyed everyone he loved to awakening in a hospital as if nothing had happened.

It had taken a syringe filled with sweet unconsciousness to finally make him let go of Andrew, but he vaguely wished that they could have given some to himself to make him forget the way Norman looked at him, forget his shaking, the way he spoke...

The very fact that his fragile world had shattered around him...

He was brought back to their own world by the hands that had grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to shake any information out of him. All he could think about, though, was the quiet reminder that he couldn't read lips as much as he thought he could, and that the muffled words sounded more like unclogging a drain.

Then that brought him back to the sound of the nurses washing their hands of the blood... They had to repair his bloodied hand from the damage of ripping out his IVs, then find new veins. After that, they had wheeled his unconscious body out of the ICU, back to his former room that he had only been away from for possibly a day.

He wondered how many of the flowers have wilted... Maybe someone brought more...

Oh, he would have to get rid of that picture. Had to remember to do that.

The shaking had stopped at this point, the only reason he knew that was because the colors had stopped spinning. Now it was a smaller pair of hands, one touching his cheek and the other his shoulder. It was tapping his cheek, as if trying to perk him out of the catatonic state he didn't quite feel like leaving.

But alas, he could not escape the truth he was holding... Not when the light tapping had disappeared as well as the hands, then only one hand holding onto his shoulder...

And then the firm smack against the his cheek took care of the rest.

It was as if all of his senses had been snapped back to full alert, suddenly aware of the noises in the room. There were numerous voices all speaking at once, he could feel the blood still sticking to his chest, someone had made fresh coffee... And damn did that slap hurt.

"See? Just needed some elbow grease."

"Well I didn't want to hurt him!"

The mix between dialects soon told him that Danai had been the slapper, while Lauren had been the tapper. He numbly rubbed his cheek, wondering if he was about to have another bruise covered up by make-up. It was always such a pain.

He could not mourn it for long, though, when the larger hands grabbed him by the shoulders and he had been spun around to face Jeffrey. It was at moments like these that he hated how intimidating he could be, which was exactly what made him such a great actor.

His eyes were like molten lava, searing into him without mercy. His teeth were near grinding together, and every word was with such authority that he had a hard time keeping his thin composure together.

"Andrew, what happened?! Nurse said that he woke up!"

"H-he did... B-but-"

Apparently all Jeffrey needed was confirmation because he didn't waste a moment in sprinting past the lead actor, already heading towards the nurse at the desk. They always needed permission to enter the main ward, but Andrew suspected that he would not get the answer he wanted.

"J-Jeffrey, they put him back out, he's-"

_"Put him out?!"_

At least Andrew wasn't alone in the initial reaction to forcing Norman to sleep again, especially as his face turned that rare shade of red. Even the nurse seemed a bit taken aback, already preparing to call security if needed. The last thing they needed was to make a scene... Even tucked all the way back in special waiting rooms, which probably were just break areas, they were still within the possibility of being seen or heard.

They had survived this long without a media blowout, they sure as hell didn't need one now.

Managing to work up a bit of courage from the fact that he was trying his best to prevent a blowout of magnificent proportions, Andrew managed to look Jeffrey in the eyes. "He's not ready for people. He's... confused. And I'm sorry, but you'll-..."

Damn. How was he going to tell anyone this? But there was the hope that this would just be temporary, since the last waking moment had been in the throws of an intense scene...

"I'll _what?"_ was the snarl that shook the waiting room, followed by a glare that seared into his very soul. Andrew couldn't help but flinch back a step, trying to grow distance between himself and the angry actor. Danai and Lauren (when the hell did she get here anyway?) were already situating themselves between the males, sensing that the scene was about to spiral out of control.

"I'll _scare_  him? I've known him a hell of a lot longer than you have!" Jeffrey growled, taking a step closer to where he was already looming over the smaller man. Andrew took another step back in a desperate attempt to gain distance. Jeffrey was known for his easy going nature and being quite lax... No one wanted to see what would happen to him being pushed over the edge.

 

"Jeffrey, I don't think that's what he meant," Danai tried to sooth the taller man, wedging herself in between the two while Lauren slipped in behind her. Danai was probably the strongest out of the three of them, but that didn't mean that she could contain Jeffrey.

Not as a strong hand grabbed onto her shoulder, roughly pushing her aside. Next was Lauren who let out a soft yelp of surprise, but it seemed like he could see no one else but the man that was telling him he could no longer see his best friend.

Then the hand reached out, grabbing hold of the collar of Andrew's shirt still stained with Norman's blood. He yanked hard, pulling them near chest to chest even as the Brit was scrambling to grab a hold of his wrist to pry it off. But there was no removing the iron grip, even when he tried to push his nails into Jeffrey's skin in a desperate attempt to make him let go.

But he couldn't look away from the eyes. The eyes that were turning near black, making every ounce of bile rush up his throat to make him near physically ill. It was as if staring into death itself, his life being squeezed within the grasp of his shirt. The hand tightened, twisting the shirt to where the knuckles of his hand were pushing into his throat, threatening to block his airways.

"Last time I checked, _I_  wasn't the one that bashed his skull in because I was a _fucking moron-"_

_"Jeffrey!"_

The hand was yanked off, tearing open his shirt in the process. Andrew stumbled back, already beginning to shake from the closeness he may have come to being the victim of Jeffrey's rage. He numbly watched as Greg had managed to push himself in between, his voice low and commanding, but he couldn't hear the words. Whatever he said didn't seem to be pleasant to Jeffrey, though, as his reply was a hiss.

He spun around and stalked across the waiting room, snagging his jacket from his chair and collecting whatever belongings he had taken with him. But as he crossed the room again to head for the open doorway, the dark eyes scorched back to Andrew.

"It's _your_  fault he's like this! You did this to him, not me!"

* * *

Water dripped down his face as Andrew stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, staring at dark rings that sagged beneath his eyes, the tear in his button-up shirt forcing the shirt to open and reveal the very slight bloodstains still against his skin.

The sink continued to drain lukewarm water into the drain, the niceness of the hospital restroom almost out of place within the sterile walls that constantly surrounded them. He found himself focusing on the details in a desperate attempt to ignore his own wavering condition.

The white sinks were surrounded by brown speckle stone, with little puddles of water splashed out of the bowls. The mirror stretched all across the wall, reflecting six stalls all painted that pale brown. There was a little nozzle to the side of every faucet where you could pump out the foaming soap, but he had no neeed for it.

All he needed was a chance to forget.

Dipping back down, he cupped his shaking hands beneath the near constant stream of water and splashed it back into his face, as if he was trying to wash away the unending guilt.

Nothing that Jeffrey said was a lie. He was right. He was the reason that Norman was now forced under again, losing his sanity, and they didn't even know what was wrong with him yet...

Doctor said that there was something wrong with his eyes. One may be blind. Norman always had trouble with his eyesight, but to drive him to near blindness... What was he going to do? Was he ever going to be able to ride his motorcycle, be able to act again, even just have daily functions?

What if it got worse...

What if he just ruined whatever would remain of Norman's life.

_"...Dammit!"_

His hand smacked against the glass, open palm though to avoid cracking the glass. Last thing he needed was to be responsible for shattering the mirrors, cutting his palm open, or a slew of other unfortunate situations. The idea of the attention going back to him, even if it was just cutting his palm, easily diverted to them 'remembering' that he was the one to cause all of this, then scorn him through glares and grimaces, whisper of his sins...

The worst part of it was that Andrew had no right to feel sorry for himself, so he thought. This was his fault, all of it. Filming would have wrapped up much sooner, they would be going out to the Walker Stalker events... There wouldn't be cancellations left and right, as if the actors had fallen off of the map.

There were streams of sadness and bitterness towards cancelations to cons, and they were beginning to think that Comicon would be out of the question as well... So many people disappointed because of him...

But he _had_  to do something. He _had_  to fix this, if nothing else.

Giving himself a quick shake and reaching blindly for the paper towels to dry off his face, a strange sort of resolve managed to peak inside of him. Andrew had to start making the situation right again, he was the only one able to.

This was his chance.

Without giving another glance to the mirror, knowing that he would still look like complete shit, he tossed the now soaked paper towel into the trash and fled the bathroom. If what they were suspecting was true, then there would be only one person that could help Norman in his time of need.

Soon he was back onto that balcony, overlooking a quiet city. The sleek phone slid out of his pocket, soon flipping it open to see the screen was filled with missed calls and text messages. Most were spamming questions with any new information, being as old as eight hours. Others were missed calls from a few minutes ago, probably with word spreading to some of the cast, but nothing from someone in particular.

They weren't at filming today, and probably was trying to have a bit of a break... Andrew clicked through the rather short list of contents, making it a bit farther than halfway through before finally pressing that nice bright green button.

Why did they have to make phones more complicated than that? Just type in the number, press the button, and call. Didn't need it to be any more complicated.

Taking in a deep breath to work up his courage, and having nearly no idea to what he would actually say, he held the phone to his ear. Half of him wanted to be answered by a voice mail... Much easier than an actual person with questions he wasn't prepared to answer, if he had an answer at all.

_...Riiiing._

_...Riiiiiiiing..._

Two more rings... Please, two more...

_Riiiiiiiing..._

Please be out...

_...Riiii-_

_"Hello?"_

Damn.

"...Hey. Uh, did... Um... It's Andrew." Nice. Very good opening. Not showing their obvious weakness.

_"Well, yeah, I guessed that... I'm hoping you're calling with... good news?"_

The awkwardness was thick like a smog passing through the phone speakers, breathed in and clouding his focus. He _really_  should have decided to what he was going to say.

Swallowing loud enought to probably be tracked over the phone, he nodded. Of course this wasn't a verbal answer, what he only realized after listening to each other's breathing for the other to react.

"Y-yeah. Yeah. He's... He woke up."

 _"...Oh my god, he's awake?! Why didn't you tell me sooner! Why hasn't anyone let us know, Greg_ told _us that he would let us know if anything happened! I got to tell the others, how is Helena? Mingus? Jeffrey-"_

"Wait, wait wait! Stop." It was hard to get in any words through the flurry of shouts that had echoed out of the phone, leaving his ear ringing. Surprisingly enough, the voice on the other end practically froze along with the breath, as if uttering another word would break whatever good news they had.

Another deep breath, silence on the other side. Giving Andrew time to collect himself.

"...Mel, we... We have a problem. Um... I-I need you to come to the hospital. Bring your bag. I don't think we're going to be leaving for... a while."

\---

It was odd having another presence in the room, and it somehow made silence even more awkward. When it was just him, Angela and Norman, it was comforting to listen to the heart monitor, to his even breaths. Then of Angela sometimes humming in the background, busying herself with the flowers and gifts.

Now the silence was... painful. Almost as painful as it was to see Melissa see Norman for the first time in a solid week, when he had been so close to a gentle recovery. Now with all the machines to keep his thready condition stable, it made the room clustered and crowded again.

Angela had made the wise decision to leave and give the three some space, only after giving the bare information. Norman had been put under again, but will not be under for long. It would give the two coworkers the chance to explain this carefully to the patient. The nurse's button would summon Angela right away, as she planned to be right outside in the hall.

It was now up to Norman to how this was going to go... The fact that Andrew had nearly demanded that he would be strapped down was not a good sign to their own faith of a peaceful experience.

He now traced the leather straps with his fingertips, wondering if they would be too loose around his wrists and ankles, and another over his waist. It made his heart sink to know that they had to treat him like an unstable animal, all but muzzling him, but it was for his own safety. The bandages that now wrapped tight around the back of his hand spoke volumes to the need to contain him.

"...Do you think he's really..?"

Andrew didn't need to ask Melissa to elaborate, not as he glanced blankly up to his cast member. She was sitting on the bed across from him, having been allowed to lower the metal bars. While Andrew sat on Norman's right, Melissa sat to the left, but in a far more intimate position.

She had pulled Norman's head to rest into her lap, the way Norman seemed to nap more often than not. Her fingers were absentmindedly running through the ragged hair, her eyes not leaving the bandages and gauze still lightly stained with blood.

It was such a pure, motherly love that was held between the two, a bond that Andrew knew he would never have with Norman. It left a small lump of envy stuck to his stomach, a cancerous lump he hoped to at least hide if he could not control.

Andrew only looked over for a moment before turning away, staring back at the leather straps that led between the mattresses to some sort of lock. He raised his shoulders just slightly, then let them drop. A shrug. Who really knew anymore?

The taboo topic was dropped quickly, and the sticky silence took control again. He fiddled with the loop of the leather on his wrist, then let his fingers touch the plastic hospital wristband. It had been replaced a few times in Norman's stay, but always stayed the odd cloudy white.

He had seen other colors on patients here and there, catching the bright colors as they were either sped down the hall or being walked around with the care of nurses. The one he had grown to hate seeing was the purple.

They had printed out a purple band for Norman. Just in case. It was something he saw by mistake, slipping out of the files Angela had been handling. It had been back when his grip to life was slipping fast, when Andrew refused to leave Norman's side as much as he could.

It was only by luck that they never had to attach that band to Norman's wrist.

Sickness had been gathering into his stomach the longer he stared at his best friend's name on the tag, and he had to look away. He drew his attention to the bedside table and to the framed photo that sat atop the wood.

Oh. That... Probably should not be there for when Norman woke up.

The bed creaked as he leaned across, trying to not disturb the other two to the best of his abilities but he could feel Melissa's eyes following him. The wood framing of the photo was cold against his fingers, and it gave a hollow sound as it was placed into the drawer, and the thump of the drawer closing nearly made his breath stop.

Trying to hide the evidence...

But he couldn't hide the way his body jolted to the sound of the leather straps being slightly pulled against, the metal clasp clicking against itself.

Whipping his head around with wide blue eyes, he could only stare at Melissa's stiffened form, her fingers still slightly intertwined with dark hair. She had frozen to the point that he doubted she was even breathing, both locked in anticipation to anything more.

His eyes flicked to the wrist that had shifted, to the clenched hand with fingers twisted within the fabric, and just couldn't stop himself from reaching out. It was hard to unlock the fingers, but once he managed to replace the fabric with his own fingers, the grasp seemed to slightly relax.

Throughout the tense moment, he tracked the heart monitor beeps. Still steady, still slow... Probably just a reaction. His suspicion was confirmed moments later as the hand fully relaxed within his own, and Norman's soft breaths remained undisturbed.

"...He's taking his time."

Melissa managed to chuckle at the teasing words, pressing a soft kiss to Norman's forehead. "He's catching up on sleep. He's the busiest out of all of us by far."

"Perhaps he will finally listen to his agent and rest."

It wasn't hard to believe that Norman was one to want to keep himself busy. Countless movies and appearances between Walking Dead, mostly because he lacked his own confidence in his position in the show, going to nearly every convention that a fellow cast member was at, his TV shows, talk shows... It made Andrew dizzy just to fathom.

But they all knew the reason... Norman loved being around people, his fans. He was blessed with his fans and worked every moment to please them. Every ounce of blood, sweat and tears was for his fans.

...It was why the producers decided to keep the footage. Even when Andrew wanted nothing more than to burn every memory of those horrific few moments, it would be what Norman wanted.

Every drop of blood was shed for his work and his love for his fans.

"...You know he won't."

"Nah, he won't."

The slightest hint of a smile managed to cross his face, and the laugh from Melissa managed to brighten some of the gloom. It had been too long from the last time they had seen each other, with Melissa having very little episode screentime like last season. The concentration was much more upon the Hilltop with the last few episodes, of the growing forces under Jesus and Maggie's leadership.

It would be an amazing season, with scavenging for supplies and trying to lead attacks against the dumpster people. There were attempts to capture Saviors and use them for information, which led to quite a few intense moments from Rick acting out and quite nearly losing control.

They still needed to film the plethera of Rick and Daryl scenes... Andrew had suggested a few... changes in the script. Thankfully they had obliged.

He hoped that Norman would be accepting of the changes as well, after everything he had been through.

Idle conversation was passed between them, of how the other cast members were. Melissa's phone would go off from time to time but usually silenced. They had agreed that until they learned more of what was ailing Norman that they would not give out the news of his awakening. Last thing they needed was the hospital being pulled from its foundation by the cast swarming in all at once and scaring him.

Eventually Andrew had changed positions from sitting on the edge of the bed to joining Melissa at the head of the bed, sitting beside her and leaning their backs against the headboard. Norman was still curled into her lap and would shift from time to time, further confirming that he was simply sleeping off the medicine.

It had been in the middle of discussing the idea of running shifts around tending to Norman that their patient finally began to awaken.

It came with just a soft grumble, as if talking in his sleep. This happened every now and then and was passed off as a dream. After that, Norman started to shift more, curling up closer to both Melissa and Andrew as if searching for their protection from the unknown.

Only when he heard Melissa's shallow gasp did Andrew managed to lean over and see the eyelids flutter, then opening.

There was no movement at first, not as they allowed Norman to gain his own senses one at a time. The eyes flicked a few times, trying to gain a grasp on the surroundings, then came the slight pulling against the restraints. When this prooved fruitless, the injured man gave a soft growl deep in his throat and tried again, pulling harder.

"...Norman?" was Andrew's first attempt to gain his attention, and it forced him to stop his movements. His body had grown stiff as if he had been discovered, trying to feign being asleep again.

Melissa's fingers trembled as they hovered above his head, not wanting to startle him by touching his wounded head. They watched in silence, but Norman made no more movements. Just waiting.

He cleared his voice. "...Norman, it's alright," he tried again, his voice soft and as close to comforting as he could attempt. Still, there was no response.

More time passed, but the stiffness had not eased. The heart monitor started to pick up the tempo, and then came the faint shivering in his shoulders.

Then, a final attempt. This time a single word.

"...Pookie?"

Melissa's voice was soft, motherly. The fingers dropped slowly, touching the feathery hair sticking out from the gauze and gave it a single stroke.

A moment passed. Then another. Andrew released the breath that he had been holding onto, relinquishing defeat. Maybe it was just another restlessness, and the heart was starting to slow again... Leaning back, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the headboard. Maybe they would have to wait a few more hours. Try again in the morning.

He carefully nudged Melissa with his arm, and was leaning over to ask if she would like to leave before he was interrupted by movement.

The hair shifted beneath Melissa's hand, and the restraints jingled again. Then the head lifted just slightly, enough to try to face the voices that had addressed him. The blues were fogged, the eyelids heavy and he at first feared that Norman wasn't seeing them at all.

His face was slightly twisted into a glare, as if expecting those horrible people that had been grabbing him last time he had been awake to be there to continue their torment, but then the gaze softened.

The head dropped uncerimonously, but nuzzled carefully into Melissa's lap. "...I-I... I missed you..."

Melissa jerked beside him, biting into her knuckles to try to hold back a sudden sob at the words, tears already seeping into her eyes. It took a few precious moments to gain control over herself and to keep herself quiet before she could finally lean over and give a gentle kiss onto his forehead again.

"Oh, Norman... I was so worried...! We thought you..." her words dropped off, as she started to pull Norman closer to her body. Kisses fluttered against his hair and temple, even as soft drops of tears fell against his skin and bandages.

But all of the kisses and pets and rushes of affection came to a halt in just a few words.

"...Hm? ...who..."

A soft cough, then clearing his throat.

"Carol... what are you talking about...?

"...N-Norman who?"


	9. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everyone is willing to accept the concept of losing Norman and gaining Daryl instead, and it will be a hard road to protect the delicate world Norman encased himself.

This was such _bullshit_.

The water bottle clenched within his hand was practically begging for death as Jeffrey's hand clenched harder around it, to the point that whatever water was left came pouring out of the top. It marked the path he had stalked time and time again with the clear drops, sloshing against the dirtied carpet trampled down.

There was a constant chatter echoing across the claustrophobic setting, with men and women crammed within the Alexandria church. It was the most proper place for a cast and crew meeting, and judging by the text they had all gotten about twelve hours ago of Norman having a stroke, many of them were fearing the worst.

Jeffrey surely wasn't helping their thoughts.

Not when he had practically bullied his way into the church once the meeting was called, only to go straight into the back corner. He could feel their stares of confusion and pity, but they didn't know _shit_.

Jeffrey didn't know _shit_.

Andrew and Greg knew _shit_  but wouldn't tell him _shit!_

All he knew was that Greg had all but straight-out banned him from the hospital, from his _best friend_. Meanwhile, _Andrew_ , the man that had bashed in Norman's skull, could strut his ass around as much as he wanted! Norman was in that room with the same man that had almost killed him, but Jeffrey couldn't...!

_"Grrahh!"_

The water bottle was freed of its painful existence as it was smashed against the wall, splattering whatever water was left onto a few unfortunate crew members trying to see if there was a way to help Jeffrey calm down. Simply put, they soon scattered and allowed the actor his space. Even that explosion did little to help ease the immense anger and betrayal, not as he resumed his near frantic pacing.

"Everyone! Attention, up here!"

Greg gave very simple commands at times, and this was one of them. Jeffrey's head snapped up at the sound of his voice over the megaphone, stopping mid-step. In an instant, his mind went blank. All that mattered was that Greg was speaking, that Greg was going to tell them something. Something he refused to tell Jeffrey alone.

It seemed the feeling was mutual as the chatter hushed to a stagnant silence in moments. The crackling of the megaphone sounded more like thunder, to which Greg immediately turned off the device. Now it was just silenced and hushed breath.

He could barely see Greg through the crowd before him, even with his height. He was standing by the podium, his expression calm and composed. He probably was the only one.

"...Now I'm sure all of you know that this morning, Norman had some difficulties during surgery. We still don't know all the details, but what we do know is that he is fine."

A collective sigh of relief came like a flood, and a heavy weight was lifted from the room, but the storm cloud suffocating Jeffrey had only thickened. He already knew this, that Norman was alive and that he was  _slightly_  okay. This shouldn't have to be some big announcement that he could have been told in the waiting room, even if he had been a few moments from tearing the flesh off Andrew's body.

He watched Greg's face with as much concentration as he could muster, reading any sign of hesitation, sadness, despair, or even something positive. There was nothing, carefully neutral. Always hiding.

The soft mumble of words within the church only lasted a few moments, probably to release some of the tension that had been stifling them for hours, and the crowd turned their attention back to Greg. There had to be more.

Only when the church turned completely silent again did Greg start speaking.

"A few hours ago, Norman was awake and conscious of his environment, and as far as we can tell, no motor functions have been affected. However."

The word was added quickly just as there was the rise of excitement, a few starting to cheer prematurely. It took that word to make every cast and crew stiffen up, and the weight was already pooling at their shoulders again.

"...However, Norman appears to only recognize people that have roles within the show, and only by their roles. This could change, as it could be a state of shock, but we should..."

The words trailed off in Jeffrey's own head, even as he was watching Greg's mouth move. Greg's attempt to veil the meaning behind carefully chosen words did nothing but delay the realization that dawned upon him.

It was why he had not been allowed to see Norman. Why Melissa was allowed instead. Why Andrew, even after he nearly killed Norman, was able to stay right by his side as if he had done _nothing_ to harm him.

He would only be Negan to him.

Only after he had shoved open the church doors did he feel the hands try to grab onto his arms, voices telling him to turn back as Greg wasn't done, others seemingly unable to connect the truth and wondering what was wrong. It took nearly every fiber of his being to only shake off their grasp, and the voices were getting farther away with every hard step he took.

No, this wouldn't be possible. It must just be a mistake. He and Norman had been together as friends much too long to be forgotten, and simply be _Negan._

Jeffrey needed to see this for himself, and prove them wrong.

He had already been straddling his bike and halfway through strapping on his helmet when there was a firm yank on his shoulder. Barely holding back a snarl of 'Fuck off', he at least turned back to see who he was about to condemn to hell for disturbing him.

To his surprise, it wasn't Greg or even some security. It was Tom Payne, eyes round with worry. Maybe he didn't hear the news. Maybe he did. It didn't fucking matter anymore.

 _"What?"_ was the word that sounded more of a threat than an actual question, something that made the slightly soft-hearted Tom flinch. He took a step back, giving Jeffrey some much needed space, and probably to stay out of punching distance.

"I just... wanted to check on you. You left in such a rush, I..." Tom trailed off, as if knowing that none of these words were going to get an answer out of Jeffrey.

Jeffrey merely grunted, his narrowed back at him. "Doesn't matter," he muttered, already turning back on his bike and slamming in the key. "Need to get the hell outta here. Not going to stay here while..."

"While Andrew's there?" Tom's voice was still slow, careful. Nearly everyone could feel the tension between the two men, and it only got worse with every scene between Negan and Rick. It was only going to get worse now that Norman was awake and Andrew would be holding the near permanent visitors spot.

"While _Norman_ needs me," Jeffrey corrected, his eyes sharpening. "He's not _stuck_  as Daryl, he's just confused. He needs me there."

"But what if all you do is freak him out?" Tom countered, his voice low and almost pleading. It was hard to stay calm and composed with someone as intimidating as Jeffrey, especially when his anger was normally under the surface. For it to be bubbling up and visibly seen...

"I'm not saying just never go up there, just give him a couple days. He's been in a freaking coma for three months, and he's tired. Can you do that for him at least? _Then_  you can go see him and try to prod him out of it."

At first, the only response Jeffrey gave was a low growl. But it wasn't an outward no. The man had to think about Norman more than anything else, above himself at this point. It was true he didn't know how delicate his mental state was at this point, but to think that he was still within the _Walking Dead_  world...? That couldn't be real.

It sounded like something written out of a bad fanfiction.

But then what if he actually did think that. What if Norman was so damaged that he didn't remember his family, his son, their friendship... And all he sees is a monster.

The key twisted in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.

"Going home. Tell Greg I'm taking a personal day."

Jeffrey barely looked behind him as he backed his bike away from the stone barrier he parked his bike against, then strapping his helmet on tight. Even as he heard Tom try to talk to him, asking if he was going to the hospital or actually going home, he paid no mind. Because he had already lurched away, throttling the engine to the point that it reminded him of that night.

He just needed to get away, get somewhere quiet. Somewhere to think.

* * *

Melissa got called to set. Because of course she did. All Andrew heard was that they were lacking a few actors and had to make a quick change of plans to what they would be filming. But in between the short moments between Norman falling asleep on her lap and being called back to set, they had devised a plan.

Probably the shittiest, half-baked plan Andrew had ever heard, but it was a plan.

He sat on the edge of the bed now, playing with the phone now. Norman was still asleep, and the nurses had assured him it was just the anesthetic still heavy in his body. He wished to be able to call Gael and tell her what was going on, but the last thing he needed was for Norman to wake up to him talking to, to Daryl's knowledge at least, a strange woman with a phone that shouldn't be working.

So Andrew had devolved to texting, one of his most hated acts. His fingers were too big for the buttons, and clicking a button three times for a specific letter was near torture. Jeffrey and Gael, with their smartphones, took a tenth of the time to text back. Norman would sometimes freak out if he spent too long texting a message and blasted him with another to check if he was still there.

Then he had to start all over again.

The phone vibrated in his hand, and he flipped it open. He scrolled through the list of texts for a moment, sighing to himself. He had just finished explaining Norman's... mental state, and the questions hadn't stopped pouring in.

He was running out of ways to say 'I don't know.'

_Gael: You think he will really believe anything you say?_

'He's going to have to. If not, it's going to overwhelm him.'

_Gael: What about Ming and Helena?_

'Doctors told them to wait, told them he wasn't mentally there yet. They're upset I'm in here instead, but they don't know the whole thing yet. It could just be temporary.'

_Gael: You can't be there the whole time, you know. You have to come home eventually._

This was the conversation he had been hoping to avoid. Andrew knew that soon enough, they would be allowed another break to go home for a few weeks. The first time, he had spent it in this hospital room. Gael had understood, since Norman was on the verge of death.

Now, though, Norman was stable, and awake. There were no threats to his life, and thus no need for Andrew to be within feet of him at all times. Gael wanted him to come home and see the kids, see her, and Andrew _wanted_  to...

But he couldn't leave Norman all alone, confused by his own memories.

His fingers lingered over the buttons, then typed again.

'Once he's lucid enough to understand he isn't Mr. Crossbow Zombie Hunter, I'll come home. I miss you and the kids so much, you couldn't believe.'

It was true. There would be times where he would take his laptop to the hospital and Skype call them. It was awkward at times, as the kids wanted to see their 'sick' Nanny Norman, and Andrew would just have to say he was sleeping. But he was trying to stay as connected to his family as he possibly could, and he hoped it was enough.

_Gael: We miss you too. I'm going to go to bed. Text me if something happens. Send Norman my love._

Andrew snapped the phone shut and slid it into his pocket, a bit of relief flooding through him. To say this was hard on their relationship was an understatement, but it would only be temporary. Norman would return to normal, or as close to normal that he's ever been, and this would just be a story to talk about just like the semi.

Glancing back to Norman as he rested on his side, he couldn't help but smile. It was good seeing all the machines off of him, other than a heart monitor and an IV here and there. The bandages were still tight around his head, but within a couple weeks at most, they would be removed.

There would be scars, though. And Norman's hair being cut off and even shaved down in some areas would be hard to manage, a constant reminder of his mistake. But he would live with it as long as he lived if Norman made it out alright.

Andrew reached out carefully, allowing his fingertips to caress through the bangs of Norman's hair. It was mostly in the back of the head that they had shaved him down, leaving the rest its usual long length. They probably were going to make Norman wear a wig when he got back to work...

Well, if he got back to work.

Just as he ran his fingers through his hair a couple times, though, the man shifted beneath him. His hand flinched, but Andrew forced himself to not remove it. This would be Daryl, at least for a few moments. He needed to act as Rick would.

Norman seemed to grunt softly in his sleep, curling up upon himself, before his eyes fluttered open. They were blank, at first. Unfamiliar with anything around him. Perhaps he would think all of this was a dream, maybe the apocalypse was a dream.

...No, that was a bit too far, even if fans liked to believe the dream theory.

"...Daryl. I'm right here. Take it slow." Andrew's voice croaked at first, as he probably should have properly lapsed into the Southern accent, but didn't consider taking the time. He cleared his throat, then tried again.

The drawl was better this time. "...You've been asleep a while. But you're safe."

The blue eyes blinked a few times, as if barely registering that he was conscious to begin with. Intending to move as slow as he can, he let his fingers run through his bangs again.

Norm opened his mouth, then gave a cough. "...Rick?" he rasped, and the eyes flicked around to search for him, only to wince at the light.

Wincing himself at his mistake, he carefully slid his fingers out of Norman's hair, then crossed the room and quickly turned off the light. Now it was only the light coming in from the blinds of the single window, opened just enough to look out but not be seen through from below.

Andrew returned to his spot on Norman's bed quickly, resting his hand down against Norman's cheek again. "Yeah. I'm right here, Daryl." The name sounded almost poisonous on his tongue, wrong. There were no cameras staring down at them, heavy lights making him nearly sweat off the fake blood, and Greg wasn't calling cut every few lines for cameras to be adjusted. It was just them.

But not really.

Norman's eyes opened again, and he could hear the slight sigh of relief. "...Now you're going to see things you don't understand, and you're going to be confused, but I'm right here. Okay? Can you look at me?"

The clouded eyes blinked a few more times, then they managed to find Andrew. The lead actor swallowed, already noticing the lack of focus in the left eye.

The doctors said there was a major chance that it was fully blind. The damage from the semi was compounded by the strike, but it was because of the titanium socket that there was no... eye... popping out. Less give than bone, if that was hard to believe.

"There you go, good. Eyes on me. Listen to me. Just listen for right now, okay?" he murmured, struggling to hold the drawl in place. All he wanted was to soothe his best friend, Norman, not talk to a beaten archer who had just been nearly killed for probably the tenth time during the apocalypse that no longer was occuring.

It was small, but he could see a hint of a nod. He was aware long enough to listen to him and keep focus. Baby steps, he reminded himself. Baby steps.

Andrew reached out carefully, cupping the other cheek. At least the bruising had been long gone, and he looked nearly normal beside the blurry focus and bandages around his head. "Now, we're in the hospital. Not the one where you and Carol were, a different one. Back in Atlanta. You've been asleep for a _long_  time. _Years_." The lies were acidic, but he swallowed down his own discomfort.

"Daryl, it's over. The walkers. The apocalypse. It's all over."

All he received at first was a blink, and his eyes widening just a fraction. Norman's mouth dropped open as if to say something, but nothing came out. Andrew waited, allowing for Norman to collect his thoughts, before he slowly began to stroke his thumb beneath his left eye, the one still unable to focus on him.

"...Europe and the rest of them, they got it under control. Britian sent doctors with a cure. You were still out at the time, still here. After you were hit-..." A lump welled up into Andrew's throat, which just wouldn't be worked down no matter how hard he tried. It was as if each swallow only brought more tears to his eyes, blurring Norman's form before he tried blinking them away.

All that did was allow them to run free, letting them slide down his cheeks.

"...After I hit you, they came. We kept you alive long enough to get you here. We... Almost lost you. We did lose you. If it wasn't for them, you'd-..." His voice shook, cracking and becoming more of a strangle.

It had been easier to think about when Norman was asleep, or when he was alone. But he was staring within the eyes of the man he nearly killed, the ones that stared at him with such _t_ _rust_  that it made a sob try to surge up his throat. Norman's eyes never left his face, barely blinking, focused. The same as when they were at that clearing, staring deep into his soul as he stared at his own death at Rick's hand.

Andrew had been too focused on containing his sobs that he didn't see Norman stir until he felt the thinned fingers wrapping around his wrist, giving it a weak squeeze.

"...S'alright, brother."

Any restraint Andrew had clawed up into his body broke beneath those two words. The sob that broke through was thick with a mixture of sorrow, guilt, and pain, but also an unending relief to look into the eyes of his best friend. The arm that tucked around his back didn't hesitate to pull him forward, allowing him to collapse against Norman's warm body.

Everything flowed out in such a heavy tide that he barely realized he had buried himself into Norman's chest and shoulder, tucking his head beneath his chin. Norman's thumb rolled carefully across his back, trying to sooth the man that was supposed to be tending to him.

Here Andrew thought he had finally come to terms with everything. Come to terms with Norman's injuries and the guilt, the fact that he could die... But hearing those words of forgiveness with no hesitation broke him.

Even if it came from Daryl and not Norman, some part of his best friend had forgiven him for something Andrew couldn't even forgive himself.

Andrew's hands twisted into Norman's hospital gown at his sides, trying to ground himself to Norman. He attempted to control himself, but just as he managed to swallow down his tears, Norman would adjust his arms and hold him closer, caress against his back, nuzzle him... Comfort him.

How Andrew had longed to hear Norman's voice, feel his hands, his warmth...

Eventually he gained a hold of himself, and tried to shift out of Norman's arms. Andrew was heavy compared to Norman now, and he certainly wouldn't want his weight crushing his chest... But surprisingly enough, the arms tightened as much as Norman could bear.

Andrew didn't hesitate to stop his resistance, and instead forced himself to listen to Norman's steady breaths, trying to match the rhythm with his own. In and out, and a pause. In and out, and a pause. They were slow, gentle. For a moment, he suspected that Norman had fallen asleep again until he felt a hand shift, and fingers began to run through his hair.

"Gotcha, Rick. Not going nowhere."

The gravely voice murmured against his cheek, followed by what Andrew had guessed were lips carefully touching against his temple. They rested there for a moment, long enough to steal away Andrew's breath, before Norman gave a soft sigh, smooth with relief.

"...Not goin' nowhere."

The breaths deepened within moments, obviously indifferent to the stiffness that took Andrew's body. The fingers that ran through his curled hair slowed, then stopped altogether and Norman faded back into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic had taken a hiatus in light of the extremely tragic events following the production of the Walking Dead, and I thought it was in bad taste to update during this tragedy. It's a reminder that what actors and stuntpeople do every day is dangerous, even when every precaution has been taken.
> 
> But thank you to all who continue to follow this little story as we finally get into the meat of Norman's fractured psyche <3


	10. Unwelcomed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Norman's little bubble is about to be burst, and the entire world will be his audience.

The first week was easily the most difficult. Even after the doctors and nurses warned Andrew several times that Norman would be confused at best, he still thought that his best friend would be able to pull out of it.

He didn't like being wrong.

There had been times where Norman would revert almost to a wounded animal, growling at whoever approached him other than Andrew, Melissa, and whoever else came to visit. Danai had come after the first day, and nearly forgot her wig. Lauren came next, and Andrew had to pull her aside to help her get back into her Maggie accent.

Then Norman asked about the baby, if it was okay, if she was okay... When Lauren had realized she had been unprepared for the answers and started stuttering, it led Norman to believe that the worst had happened. If Andrew hadn't been there to quickly explain that everything was fine, who knows what Norman would have done.

He wanted to see it. The baby. Lauren had to tell him no, because he was still too weak. She corrected herself quickly, saying that she wanted 'Daryl' to meet his nephew in the best way possible. The imaginary baby's name was Hershel, he was... nearly two years old. He loved dinosaurs. An entire history was being poured out from Lauren's lips, and Norman hung to every word.

Then visiting hours were over, and both had to leave. It was that night that Norman tried to escape.

Andrew had been woken up at close to 3 AM by Angela telling him that Norman had tried to break through the window in his room. While of course being on the _third floor_  of the hospital. Had he not accidentally let his heart monitor patch slip off and let it flat-line before he broke through the window-...

They moved Norman to a new room after that. No windows, no sign of the outside world. It was dangerously close to other patients, but the doctors were sure that they would not let Norman be seen.

But the worst had to be when Norman woke to two very important visitors; Helena and Mingus. The very fact that Norman had glared at them, demanding to know why they were in his room... Then when they tried to explain that Helena was his past partner and Mingus was their son, Norman had turned cold.

"I don't got a _kid_. Or a wife. Get outta my room! Where's _Rick_?!"

Helena and Mingus didn't come back after that. Andrew will never forget Mingus pleading for his father to remember him, Norman getting angrier, Helena swearing that it was all Andrew's fault... The hate in her eyes and the heartbreak in Mingus's...

It took hours for Norman to calm down again, even with Andrew in the room. They eventually had to drug him because his head was hurting to the point that he could barely speak. The doctors said it could be a sign the memories are trying to surface... or a sign that there was still severe damage to the brain and they had to keep him calm.

Either way, it was the last time Mingus and Helena visited. Even when Mingus wanted to stay, hoping that Norman would gain back his memories, Helena wasted no time to take him back to New York.

Other people who had gotten word that Norman had woken up tried to come. People from _Boondock Saints_ , past actors from the _W_ _alking Dead_ , people who had died on the show... The worst had to be Steven Yeun.

To the doctors, seeing Steven would have either of two effects. One, Norman snapped out of his _Walking Dead_  haze after seeing a cast member who was supposed to be _dead_ , or... his fragile reality would collapse, along with his sanity, and they could lose whatever remnants of Norman that was left forever.

In the end, there were only a few Walking Dead characters that Norman could see; Rick, Michonne, Maggie, Carol, and _maybe_  Carl. They would have to be extremely careful with the bandage over his eye and ensure it did not reveal that he was not missing it at all.

Of course this fact did not go over well with the cast and crew that were left out, and it showed on the set. Tensions were high, there was very little talking, and it was almost worse than when Norman had first been injured.

Andrew couldn't help but continue to feel that the blame was entirely on him. If he hadn't hit Norman with that damn bat...

But by the next week, there was progress. Norman was gaining strength back. Even if doctors and nurses had to walk on eggshells for him, they were still managing to give him small amounts of physical therapy, as well as mental.

They started with writing. Already, Andrew could see that _something_  was different. Norman was misspelling things, his writing even more sloppy than it was before... Only when Andrew asked Norman to write his name did he realize that he was writing in the signature of Daryl Dixon.

Speaking hadn't changed, still the gravely tone. Eye contact was harsh and glaring, and it unnerved most of the nurses who were use to him being asleep. He was swearing more, scowling... Just unnerved. Andrew already knew why.

Norman- or rather, Daryl, was scared. Not in control.

It led to Andrew being nearly chained to Norman's bed to keep him calm. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, Angela was favored. By favored, it was more to the point that he did not scowl and snap at her nearly as much. The doctor believed it was because he had been somewhat aware during his coma and recognized her voice. It led to the question to if _Daryl_  had been listening, or Norman.

Even thinking about it now left Andrew with a headache.

By the second week, Norman was starting to get out of bed, but was not allowed to leave the room. Nurses had been forced to lock it from the outside as he would almost constantly try to slip out when there was no one around. It reminded Andrew of him escaping the cell, but with one key difference; they weren't  _hurting_  him. They were trying to help.

All it did was frustrate Norman. He wanted to hunt, to feed the family. He wanted to see the Alexandria group.

And then the conversation of the Saviors began.

Andrew had tried his best to stifle off the conversation as long as he could, saying that the Saviors were not a problem anymore. But when Norman became more demanding, he had devised a plan. Another shitty plan.

Dwight was alive. He had helped them lead a fight against the Saviors barely a day after 'Daryl' had been hit. There had been a grand battle between the four groups against the Saviors, and they had wiped them out.

That included Negan.

Norman of course wanted details. How did Negan die. Did he suffer? Did he tear out his eyes? The pure _blood-thirst_  that had encased Norman had been startling, the normally loving and cuddly man now actually wanting to see someone being destroyed.

But he had to remind himself that this wasn't Norman, not now. This was Daryl and he had to keep Daryl controlled so he did not go out and hunt down any remaining Saviors. Rick had to make the threat go away.

So came the grand finale: the death of Negan. It was to be such an amazing sight, to take revenge over everyone he had killed...

They had imprisoned Negan, chained him up like a dog. They had beat him within an inch of his life to get information to absolutely every scrap of his supplies, and forced him to _beg_  to be killed. Only after _weeks_  of torture did they finally end his pathetic life, using the same bat that had stolen so many.

"...he's gone? For good?"

Andrew turned around, having been fiddling with the flowers that had been moved into this new room. It was almost relieving to see that the amount of flowers was fading, no longer looking like greenhouse vomit. Norman was sitting on the bed, staring at a black cat plush now sat on his lap that he just couldn't take his eyes off. It had been Mingus's gift, not that he knew. He had already made it quite clear he wanted nothing to do with the people he didn't recognize.

"He's gone. Rotted through by now. Won't ever come back for us," Andrew murmured, his voice rough from almost constantly being in the Rick accent. Norman didn't look up at him, instead reaching out and adjusting the kitten plush to where it sat straight up. His thumb ran across the back, as if petting it.

The blue eyes snapped up to him, and the hand snapped away. The scowl had returned and he glared down at the bed again.

"...Wanted to kill the fucker myself. Lock 'm up in the cell. Shove that fuckin' bat so far up his ass-"

" _Daryl_."

Andrew bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to remain calm. It was near torture seeing Norman reduced to this mess of a survivor, fully believing in his torture, abuse, even to when he was a child... It was as if they were all memories.

He would flinch when he was touched, growl at those who were too close, it was almost like Norman was -gone-. But he couldn't believe it. There had to be a way to bring him back.

Taking a deep breath, Andrew sighed. "He suffered. I... I gave him a few blows for you. So did Carol. And Maggie." He swallowed hard at the thought of this imaginary torture, trying to decide just how detailed he was willing to get. "...We killed him for you, Glenn, Abraham, Sasha... Everyone we lost because of him. He's gone."

The cold blue eyes blinked, then the older man shook his head. His bangs hung down his face, and Abraham felt the familiar sinking of his gut as he looked to the mess of his hair. There was the clear outline of the scars where the skull had been opened up to relieve the swelling and of the impact itself. Angela had said they were going to try to even out his hair in a couple days, once they were able to get scissors anywhere close to him without the possibility of being attacked.

There was the fact that they could bind his limbs down, but Andrew had already warned against it. Daryl was in complete survivor mode, and would become violent in that kind of a situation.

"...Hmph," Norman huffed to himself, his shoulders lifting up and dropping with a shrug. Acceptance in the situation. Andrew had learned Daryl's body language ever since season one and it was a very useful skill to have.

Andrew crossed the distance of the small hospital room, then sat down on the edge of the bed. Norman looked strangely small still, with the hospital gown still hanging on his body. It would take months to build up the body mass he lost, especially in his arms and shoulders. He could clearly see his collarbone pressing up against the skin usually surrounded by muscle.

They still had a long road ahead of them, he reminded himself. Plenty of time for Norman to come back.

Taking a deep breath, Andrew pulled his eyes back up to Norman's face, even as he avoided Andrew's eyes. There had to be something to help pull Norman back... If Mingus and Helena wouldn't work, then maybe... himself.

Andrew cleared his throat loudly. Norman glared up at him, as if it offended him to make such a sound. He needed to get out of Rick's head, get back into Andrew Lincoln. Even if it wouldn't be perfect without proper vocal excersises to lapse into it, the point would still be clear.

Now able to meet Norman's eyes, he leaned over carefully and rested his hand down onto Norman's knee. He had Norman's full and undivided attention. Swallowing one last time, he let the words roll off his British tongue. "...Norman, I-"

The British dialect was cut short by shouting. There were loud voices up and down the halls, then the sound of shoes against prestine tile, turning his head towards the noises. It was something he hadn't heard ever since they had moved Norman out of the ICU. Had something gone wrong in another room? It could mean that he had to stay in the room a while longer to keep from being seen...

But there was nothing he could do about it. He hoped that whoever it was wouldn't suffer from whatever was happening, then looked back to Norman. Andrew had just opened his mouth to speak to him again when his breath became stuck in his throat.

Norman was pure white. His eyes were stretched wide and he stared at the door. The voices outside were starting to get louder, and he could start picking out words that Norman must have heard before him.

"You can't be in this area!"

"Sir, I'll need to call security if you don't go back to the waiting room!"

" _Fuck_  your security!"

Andrew's heart stopped cold in his chest.

The knob on the door jiggled visibly. In a desperate effort to prevent the madness that was about to erupt, Andrew shoved himself off of the bed and sprinted to the door. There was nothing to block it than his own body, but he still had to try.

But he didn't make it.

"Norman! These assholes still keeping you here? I'm gonna get you home!"

Jeffrey filled up the doorway after swinging the white door open, his voice booming. There was a hint of what should be humor in his voice, but it laid upon deaf ears. The grin on his face was too wide, too cheery, as if he expected that nothing could go wrong.

"Jeffrey, no! He's not ready! Get him outta here!" Andrew yelled, desperately trying to push himself between Norman's view and Jeffrey's huge body. He couldn't dare look back at Norman, not as he subconsciously slipped back into the Rick dialogue. Jeffrey seemed to have caught that too.

"Aw, are they babying you, Normie?" Jeffrey laughed, as if his normally humorous view would just chase all of this away. His large hand grapped onto Andrew's shoulder, pushing him aside with ease. The hand remained there to keep Andrew from interfering, even as he fought to push Jeffrey out of the room.

"C'mon, I think you need a nice cold beer after being in this hellhole for _months_. There yah go, let's get out of here!"

 _Smash_.

Jeffrey's body contracted, every muscle turning solid in a second.

"...Normski?"

The hand on Andrew's shoulder lifted off slowly, and out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Jeffrey lifting up his hands. Holding them up, palms facing Norman. Andrew swung around, unable to push his heart back down from his throat, only to choke on it.

Norman stood in the center of the room, shivering slightly on his feet. But it wasn't the weakness that caught Andrew's attention. Instead he stared at the shattered pieces of a flower vase now scattered across the floor, and the long, jagged shard that he held within one hand.

Andrew swallowed. The situation had become as deadly as the shard clenched within his fist, the eyes focused directly to Jeffrey's face, and the pure rage across his face.

"Daryl..." Andrew murmured, soon lifting up his hands to show that he was unarmed. Norman flinched, and his hand tightened. A line of red began to weep down the tip of the makeshift blade.

Andrew took a step forward, and Norman didn't move. "Daryl, I'm going to take away the knife. And then we're going to sit down. Give me the knife."

Norman visibly shook. "...I-Is he... there? Tell me! Is he there!" he snarled, but Andrew heard the trace of fear. The arm extended, pointing the shard directly to Jeffrey, but now was shaking. "Why is he there! You said he was _dead_!"

"Daryl, let me take the knife," Andrew tried again, taking another step closer. He was extremely aware of the nurses and doctors that were trying to get into the room, but he held up a hand to them. Signalling them to not move. If they tried to jump on Norman now, someone was going to get hurt.

"Just tell me!" Norman shouted suddenly, echoing in the tiny room. Andrew stopped just as Norman stared back at him, and he could see something within them. Betrayal. Anger. Hatred. But _fear_. "Is he _real?_ " The voice broke, and now there was pain splitting into the gaze. His other hand shook as it pushed against his temple, fingers tangling and tearing at his scalp and hair.

"Daryl, listen to me. I need you to give me the knife. He's not there." Another step.

"Don't lie to me! You're a shit liar! What are you doing with him!"

One more step. He was within striking distance, now. If Norman really wanted to, he could shove that glass straight into his chest, disembowl him, do nearly anything. "Daryl. Give me the knife. Negan is dead, it's not him"

The eyes flicked away from Andrew's face and he felt his stomach drop. The shaking began to still. His jaw locked in place, and his hand tightened and pushed the blade deeper into his own palm.

Slowly, he reached out to touch Norman's wrist to try to lower the blade. But perhaps all he had been doing was delaying the inevitable.

Something inside Norman snapped at the moment that Andrew had touched him, and he lunged at Jeffrey. Even when he could barely stand, he was still too fast for Andrew to grab a hold of him.

Norman slammed shoulder first into Jeffrey's chest, pushing him through the doorway and into the hall and disappearing from his sight. There was a solid thud as Jeffrey landed on his back, followed by screams of random people.

The voices only got louder as he tried to push his way through the nurses and doctors that now surrounded the two men, and he caught sight of a male nurse grabbing Norman's arm that had been in mid swing down into Jeffrey's heart.

"Die, you piece of shit!"

"Norman, it's me! Jeffrey!"

Shoving his way past another nurse, Andrew grabbed onto Norman's hand and started forcing the glass shard out of his bleeding hand. "Daryl, stop!" he yelled down at the struggling man, and only after prying a couple fingers free did he get a good enough grip on the shard to pry it from his hand.

Darting back, Andrew watched as doctors swarmed down upon the unarmed man, pulling him off of Jeffrey and down to the ground.

"Get off of me! What the fuck are you doing to me!" Norman's voice echoed down the hall, along with his attempt to lash out at the doctors and nurses. He would claw, scratch, bite, anything he could do to fend them away.

Even at his weakened form, he managed to push one male nurse back, but only long enough to try to sit up and land a punch on another. Andrew had to bite down any attempt to sooth Norman, as nothing would get through his head at this point as a nurse approached with a syringe.

Norman saw it too, and only fought harder. "Rick!" he cried out, even as the nurses had him pinned down on his arms and legs, rendering him motionless. "Rick, fuckin' help me! _Rick_!"

Swallowing down the tears that lurched into his eyes, Andrew had to force himself to kneel down before Norman. Carefully, he took Norman's cheeks into his hands, forcing the stormy blue eyes to look back at him. "Daryl, they're going to help you. Okay? I'm right here. Just look at me."

Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched as the syringe sank into his shoulder. Norman gritted his teeth together and tried to shake himself free, but Andrew held firm. "Rick, don't let'm take me away..." was the growl that morphed into a plea, just as tears started forming in his eyes.

"They're helping you, Daryl."

Norman's rapid breathing was beginning to slow, but the desperation didn't. Andrew already knew what it looked like to him; abandoning him to a pack of wolves. Just like his father, just like his brother, just like when he had been taken away by Negan.

"What's happenin' to me...?"

Barely a moment was allowed before the arms tucked around his drugged body, pulling him up off the ground. He hung in their grasp, limp and near lifeless other than the tears that had slipped down his cheeks. They carried him back into his room, and shut the door behind them.

Nurses were still surrounding a stunned Jeffrey, looking over a shallow slash over his chest that was more of a graze than anything else. They were talking softly, saying that it shouldn't need stitching, to wash it out properly, keep an eye on it, etc. But Jeffrey wasn't looking at them. Instead he was staring right behind Andrew. Like there was something there.

Hoping that Greg would once again save him from Jeffrey's rage, he stood back up and turned.

He met the gaze of almost a dozen people that had filed out into the hall. Some had phones out. Recording. Watching them.

Watching Norman Reedus lose his mind and attack his best friend Jeffrey Dean Morgan, all while Andrew Lincoln tried to calm the situation.

Andrew may have stood there forever if it wasn't for someone grabbing onto his arm, yanking him the other way. "Mr. Lincoln, security will take you out," was the feminine voice that murmured beside him, but he couldn't look at her.

All he could see was the people, then started the voices. The words. Soon will come the posts to YouTube. Then the blogs. Then the crowds. The paparazzi. The mobs. The news.

They were going to find out everything.

\---

Andrew couldn't leave his office chair. He could barely move. He was supposed to start packing to go on the rather 'impromptu' break from filming that Greg had given. But all he could do was stare at the constantly updating feed on the Internet.

All he had to do was look up 'Norman Reedus' and the stories were everywhere. Hundreds.

The same with looking up himself and Jeffrey. There were so many videos. Most of them were grainy and could have been passed off as fake. But then there was one... And it was _exploding_.

It saw everything.

It had started recording when Jeffrey had burst into the room, having been following him discreetly just because... well Jeffrey Dean Morgan. And then it heard the smash. The curses. Norman's demand to know if he was _real_. He could even hear himself saying _Daryl_.

Then came Jeffrey getting tackled and thrown to the ground, and actually caught the slash Norman managed to make. It became cluttered after that, the phone shaking, but he could make out the chopped up hair, and even the bald scarring where he had taken the blow from Lucille. It was jagged and ugly, and so was Norman's expression of bloodlust.

Then he had forced away the glass, and Norman had been dragged down and... Andrew couldn't watch any longer.

Swallowing, he looked away from the monitor of his computer.

It had been only a couple days and it was _everywhere_. Greg had called a state of emergency for the cast and crew, telling them to get out and hide. He was going to do damage control. The sets were now empty, everything packed away... Greg was planning to resume filming in a couple weeks.

There was the thought that this was a publicity stunt, some sort of advertising for the new season, maybe they were filming and things got out of hand. Andrew prayed that it was all this was going to turn into... A publicity stunt of the hatred of Negan, and a warning to Daryl possibly being injured.

Andrew rubbed his face slowly, trying to chase away his tiredness. If only Jeffrey had listened to him...! But then again, it was bound to happen eventually. He just wished that it hadn't been so hard on Norman...

Angela told him Norman had forbidden him from visiting him. Because he was lying about Negan, that Rick was betraying him somehow, working with the enemy... She also said that Norman was extremely irritable and they had resorted to drugging him again. Not to coma levels, but just to keep him tired.

All Andrew had to hope was this would be the worst part, and that maybe some good would come out of it.

Then his phone chirped at him, the 8-bit tone of " _God Save the Queen_ " ringing. Someone was calling him. Leaning over his desk, he picked up the flip phone and popped it open.

Angela.

Sighing loudly, he pressed the green button and held the phone to his ear. "Hey, how's he-..."

The office chair was shoved across the room, smacking against the wall.

"What do you mean he's _gone_?!"


	11. The New Norma(n)l

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrew and Chandler flip Atlanta upside down searching for Norman, but that's as far of a plan as they have.

_"How far could he have gone? How long has it been?"_

"I-I don't know, could have been a few minutes, an -hour-, maybe even longer...!"

_"Is there a chance he's going to try to find his way home?"_

"You know as well as I do that there's no damn way he's finding his way _anywhere_."

Andrew slammed the door to his home shut behind him, hauling the last bag under his arm. His throat was aching at this point by the constant use of his Rick accent, but it would be ignored for now. It had been near constant rushing around the house ever since Angela had called him, knowing that wrangling down a frightened Norman would be much more difficult than anyone else could expect.

Apparently he had slipped out at any time between eleven or one, as there had been shift changes at those two times. When Angela had been about to administer another dose of morphine to keep him calm, she had come into an empty room. His room had been unguarded by the fact that they had been keeping him subdued with the drugs, but somehow, he had remained conscious enough to slip out of the hospital.

How the hell Norman managed to sneak his way out of a hospital with security on every corner while also being drugged... Actually, Andrew decided he wouldn't question it anymore. Daryl was a natural escape artist and now Norman would be the same way.

_"Okay, how are we going to do this?"_

"Uh... I don't know if I want to involve Chandler or not, but he's in town still. Jeffrey is..." No, bad idea. Don't involve Jeffrey. The last thing they needed was Jeffrey being murdered because Norman was frightened by the presence of Negan chasing him down.

_"I'll see if Chandler is up. It could help calm him down if he sees Carl."_

"So we got Rick, Carol and Carl. Has Danai left yet?"

Tossing the last bag into the back seat of the car, he closed the door sharply. There was clothing, some food, water, blankets, anything he could use to help calm down Norman when- or rather, _if_ they found him. Time was of the essence. Even if it was in the dead of night and the city was much quieter, he still was wandering around, probably still in his hospital gown.

He could get mugged, hit by a car, taken, lost, could even freeze...!

_"She left this morning, but I'll give her a call. We're going to need all the help we can get."_

"Angela called Greg first, he's got the police looking out for him, but I think we both know that's not gonna do a damn thing."

The most dangerous thing out in Atlanta right now was Norman's fractured psyche. If he saw anything as a threat, then...

Andrew swallowed down the sickness that lurched up his throat. His hand tightened around the phone he held to his ear while the other fished out his keys from his pocket. He was still in pajama pants and shirt, but had grabbed a jacket. It was getting colder every night. Another reason to why they needed to get Norman to safety.

There was silence on the other line, with the sounds of Melissa also leaving her home. Soon enough, though, she started speaking just as Andrew climbed into the car.

_"Chandler is up, I'm going to go pick him up. Do you want him with you or with me?"_

"I'll take him. He trusts you more than he does me right now, and I need the extra help. We can meet up at the hospital and go from there."

_"Okay. Drive careful."_

Andrew let out a long sigh and turned on the car. "Yeah. You too." Clicking the red button, he snapped the phone shut and let out another groan. He sank deep into the leather chair, closing his eyes and attempting to pull in a deep breath into his lungs. There was no time to panic.

Pulling the car into drive, he gave no second thought before practically screeching his way out of the driveway, the idea of careful driving left in the dust-clouds behind him.

* * *

Flashlights darted around in the darkness, following up walls, cracks, alleys, sidewalks, streets, anywhere that the light could reach. Cars were rolling past every now and then, but the normal instinct to hide away from view had to be put on hold.

"Daryl!"

Another car rushed past, honking. They paid no notice.

"Daryl, are you out here? Daryl!"

The flashlight swung to look down another alley, but only stirred up an alley cat that had been taking scraps from a garbage can.

_"Daryl!"_

A grumble came from the shorter of the two figures walking down the sidewalk, adjusting the deputy hat that was flattening his thick brown hair. It helped conceal the bandages that were wrapped tight around his right eye.

"...Dad, where are we going?" Chandler grumbled, rubbing against his eye again. It was uncomfortable having to deal with it while filming, but he had the bandages on for _hours_  already.

Andrew delicately touched Chandler's wrist and started to pull it away. He carefully shined the light beside him, checked to make sure the bandages were still in place, then shined it down the street again.

"Well, he's not gonna go away from what he knows," Andrew sighed, flashing up the light to look at the street sign. They were close, a few blocks. "I don't think you ever had to film inside Atlanta, did you?"

"Nope," Chandler chirped in return, tilting the hat back again. They at least allowed him to not change into some sort of costume, and instead had come out in pajamas just like Andrew. It would at least give the appearance that they both were woken up at the same house... Since they were father and son.

It would hopefully make sense, but maybe Andrew was overthinking it.

"Well, I know Daryl knows this part of town..." Andrew murmured softly to himself, crossing another street. He glanced back up towards the skyline, trying to pick out the specific building. He hoped that it was still abandoned, for civilians' sake.

"Oh!" Chandler exclaimed, making Andrew jump and whip around. "Is this where you guys got the cops called on you?" The wide grin on Chandler's face held a bit of mischieft, and Andrew let out a sigh.

"...Yes, we... didn't quite plan it out as well as we should have," Andrew muttered, turning back to the sidewalk and flashing the light down the street. "Someone thought Rooker was going to shoot up the sidewalk. Played his part as a reckless redneck a bit too well."

He ignored the snickering beside him as much as he could. It had been a bit of a scary moment with the cops surrounding the building, and for a moment, he had wondered if his welcoming to the United States would be inside an American jail.

Clearing his throat, he looked back up to the buildings, squinting in the darkness. Speaking of reckess rednecks, there hadn't been the sound of screaming or cops being called. Perhaps that meant that Norman was safely tucked away to wait for the sun. Or it could mean he wasn't here at all and this was just a waste of precious time.

"If he isn't here..." Chandler began, his voice turning quiet. "Then what do we do?"

"I..."

Andrew hadn't thought that far, or rather forbade himself to do so. If Norman wasn't here, that meant that they would be starting from square one in the middle of Atlanta. They could comb through every building, alley and crack in the walls and still not find him. But what would be even worse would be if someone else found him first.

Norman was hard to miss when everyone knew his face. If word got out that Norman was missing, then the entirety of Atlanta will be searching. There was a high chance that whoever found him would act as if he was simply Norman, then ask for pictures, squeal and hug him, expecting the cuddly Norman the public saw every day.

It would be too late when they realized that Norman was not Norman anymore.

"...It's right here," Andrew muttered softly, diverting away from the conversation as if it was a venomous viper. The flashlight illuminated the door to the ancient office building, and judging by the cracked windows and empty interior, it was still abandoned. As they crossed the street to enter the building, his chest tightened.

One of the windows had been broken into. It was fresh, and the glass shards were all on the inside of the building. Letting the light slowly brush against the edges of the broken window, he saw a few shreds of fabric caught by one of the shards.

Checkered white and blue. The hospital gown that Norman had been wearing.

He was here.

* * *

Cold. Cold. Why was it cold. Shouldn't be cold. Should be hot, sweaty. Hunting.

Should be hunting.

But there's people. Too many people. This was Atlanta, wasn't it? Rick said it was Atlanta. Should be broken, destroyed. So many walkers. Too many walkers.

Don't have a weapon. Need to scavange. But people were living here. -Living-. Was like the walkers never happened.

But they did happen. Didn't it? Negan, Governor, Terminus, they all happened.

But where was home. Alexandria. Was it close? Had to be. Someone gotta know where. Only safe place. Rick would be there.

Michonne. Carl. Carol. Maggie. Judith-

 _Judith_.

Never talked about Judith. Where was Judith. She's big now. Big Lil' Asskicker.

Still cold. Shivering. Need to find Rick. Was Alexandria South? Think so. Think South. Need to get out before sun. Then track. Then hunt. Bring back deer. Carl likes deer. Rick likes deer, too. Don't wanna eat dog again.

Had a dog. Was a good dog. Pa didn't like dogs. Beat dogs. Can't have dogs.

No, don't think about Pa. About Rick. Think about Rick.

Rick.

Rick.

Rick knows where I am. Always knows. Always finds me. Don't wanna be alone no more. Don't wanna be in hospital. Too much like Beth. Miss Beth. Shouldn't have died.

Wanna go _home_.

Head _hurts_.

Not _s_ _afe_.

Sound. There's sound. Not walker. Human. Enemy. Have to _protect_.

Get to corner. Better there. Can't get snuck up on. More sound, footsteps. Moving blockaid. Tried to block off walkers. Can't climb over beams good. Too stupid, like... Like...

Pipe. Pipe's good weapon. Like a bat. Smash in walker's heads real good. Bat smashes too good. Smashed Glenn. Smashed Abraham. Smashed him-

Voice. Door shaking. Voice says Daryl. Who's voice? Two voices?

Trap. Gotta be a trap. Gonna take me back. Gonna take me to the cell. Strip me. Beat me. Starve me. No, not going back! Fight! Kill!

Door opens. Too dark. Can't see. Eye doesn't work. Blurry. Two people.

...Hat.

Carl. Carl! _CARL!_

_RICK!_

...Safe. Safe now.

  
Safe.

* * *

"Daryl? Are you okay?"

Chandler's voice was soft, gentle, but wary. His uncovered eye was focused on the pipe held whiteknuckled in Norman's hand, and Andrew could see every muscle twitch, spasm, and flex. Even in the darkness, Andrew could still read Norman's expression. Even as he was backed up against the cleft of the roof, so close to possibly tumbling over the edge, he could still see it.

He could see the change from fear, battle-ready, shock, then... calm. Oddly calm. Like seeing them was the equivilance of a tall glass of water after days in the desert.

Norman was visibly shaking in the hospital gown that had tears and stains. Pieces had been torn off, all the way up to his knees, probably to not hinder his running. Parts of the shreds were wrapped around Norman's hand and wrist, the same that had been attached to IVs. They were slightly damp with blood. Other than a few scraped and bruises, he appeared unharmed.

Stepping out of the doorway to stand beside Chandler, Andrew ducked his head down, an attempt to meet him at eyelevel. Norman was just as scared as a feral animal, and he would need to be approached the same way.

Calm voice. Head down. Eye-contact at all times. Go slow. _Don't_  show aggression.

The stormy blue eyes snapped from Chander to Andrew, the hand holding the pipe shaking before it began to lower.

"There you go, Daryl. You're safe. We won't hurt you," Andrew tried to sooth, and took a step closer. When Norman didn't flinch, Andrew carefully murmured to Chandler; "Get the car." Of course Chandler needed keys.

The action of putting his hand into his back pocket immediately made Norman cringe, then bare his teeth. The pipe lifted up again, and Andrew stopped moving. "No, no, Daryl, not going to hurt you. Just keys. See?" Andrew quickly stated, moving slower to take out the keys with random trinkets on the loops and holding them up for the other man to see.

The eyes stared at the keys, narrowed, then Norman gave a curt nod of acceptance.

In a swift movement, Chandler reached out and swiped the keys away from him, then backed up to the stairs again. It was only when he nearly stumbled down the first flight of steps did he finally turn around and rush down the steps. The hollow steps on the steel steps faded in the distance, but Andrew hadn't moved from looking back at Norman.

"Alright, now how about you put down the pipe? It's just us now," Andrew murmured, and took another step closer. Norman jolted just slightly, but managed to collect himself again. The question on how he was going to get Norman downstairs and into his car, then to wherever he could think of was a question he hushed. One step at a time. First he had to get him to let go of the pipe.

Picking up at the slight suspicion in Norman's eyes, he unzipped his jacket then slowly began to pull it over his shoulders. "I don't have anything on me. I'm not armed."

"...'s pretty dumbass idea," Norman muttered under his breath, "not havin' your gun."

Even with the hardness in his voice, the corner of Andrew's lips twitched into a faint smile. "I know. Carl has his pistol, though. He's turning into a great shot," he praised softly, lifting his palms and showing that they were empty. "He is _almost_  as good as his old man," he chuckled, attempting to lift the nervousness that plagued his friend.

It seemed to work, a soft huff coming from Norman. He reached up carefully with his bound hand, pressing his palm over the left side of his face.

Andrew flinched. The blindness in the left eye. Doctors had confirmed it a week ago, and said that the retina had been completely detatched. It had already been rattled because of the semi incident, and the blow to the back of the head had finished the job.

"...Might gotta get lessons from 'm," Norman muttered softly, running his fingertips through the still-long bangs. His crouched stance was beginning to soften, his shoulders less tense and the grip on the pipe loosened.

"We can do that later. When you get back on your feet."

The eyes flicked back up to Andrew, before they suddenly sharpened. The tenseness returned, and he could see his teeth peeking out from under his lips. The sudden hostility made him swallow and take a step back.

"Daryl? What's wrong?" he carefully asked, rotating his palms to expose that they were still empty. A growl rumbled in Norman's chest, and his eyes flicked around, almost frantic.

"'M not goin' back there," Norman growled loudly, and his grip tightened back onto the pipe. "Not gonna go back there and let'm _drug_  me, fuckin' tie me down like a fuckin' animal! Not gonna deal with that shit no more, Rick!"

"Okay, okay!" Andrew hushed, bending his knees just slightly to appear smaller. "We won't go back to the hospital." Biting onto the inside of his cheek, he tried not to curse himself audibly to the decision. Sure, he could check Norman out of the hospital, but there still were things that Norman needed.

Like medications. Even now he could tell that Norman was in pain. His head had never been kind to him and it certainly wouldn't be now.

Silence claimed them, or as silent as it could be in the middle of Atlanta at about four in the morning, before he dared to ask the question. "Where do you want to go, Daryl? I'll take you there."

Norman seemed taken aback, as if he had not expected to actually convince Andrew to not go back to the hospital. Blinking a few times, he took in a deep breath, to the point that Andrew could hear it rattle in his chest. "...wanna go home. Alexandria."

"...Okay. Okay, Daryl. I'll take you back to Alexandria. But I'm going to need you to dro-"

The pipe already was rattling on the concrete floor before he could finish the sentence, and a startled huff of a laugh slipped from him. What silenced the laugh was Norman standing up, only to nearly fall backwards, which could have led to toppling over the edge of the nine-story building.

"Careful!" Andrew yelped, rushing forward and grabbing onto Norman's wrist to catch him and help the other man steady. Norman's eyes were wide with fright, but it was chased away by Andrew's steady hands. He stumbled forward into Andrew's waiting arms, gasping softly in pain.

Andrew had no idea what Norman had been through that night. Fleeing the hospital, finding his way through the city, trying not to be caught... Mere weeks after waking up from a three month coma. It took strength that Andrew couldn't fathom.

And just for a moment, he gathered Norman into his arms and held him tightly. What he hadn't expected were the hands that clenched at the back of his pajama top, fingers twisting within the fabric as if he was his lifeline.

The other man trembled within his grasp, burying his face within Andrew's neck to where he could feel his shivering breath. And just like that, they were back. Back to the reunion from the midseason finale. Back to after a torturous night on set. Back to when there would be fights, stress, anxiety...

Back to when they were Andrew and Norman.

Closing his eyes, Andrew pressed his forehead against Norman's head, breathing in the scent of his best friend now free of the antiseptic that stained the air. He had to remind himself, just for a moment, that Norman was down in there somewhere. His best friend was within the layers, he just... Just had to keep trying.

Because Norman can't be gone for good.

"...C'mon, brother. Let's get you home."

* * *

Andrew flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror for possibly the sixth time in the last minute. He was still asleep. The heat that was blasting through the vents was enough to make both he and Chandler to break out in a sweat, but it helped put the man to sleep in the back seat. It was faintly adorable seeing him all curled up in the comforter he had taken off of his own bed, cheek against the mirror, softly snoring.

That was certainly a Norman trait. Even if he was just napping, he snored like a freight train.

"...Yeah, we got him. ...Yeah. ...No, he's okay. He's sleeping."

Glancing back to the passenger's seat, he watched as Chandler spoke into his phone. This was the third person he had to relay the message to, and from the faint voice on the other side, he guessed that it was Danai. She had loaded up the moment she heard about Norman escaping and was on her way over.

Most of the _Walking Dead_ family was awake at this time, even when it was closer to five in the morning.

Sighing softly, he stared at the road ahead, just finally getting out of Atlanta. Every bone in his body was telling him to turn around and taken him back to the hospital, but all he could think about was the relief when Andrew had told him they were going home.

...Well, Alexandria. Home was half an hour away from the set, out in the country, with weird masks on the wall, strange art, and just about anything that screamed _Norman_.

"No, we can't. He doesn't-... No, he's just going to run away again." Chandler sighed to the point that he worried he would wake up Norman. Peeling off the deputy hat, he unwrapped the bandages and rubbed at the previously covered eye. Andrew's reminder to keep it on fell short. Norman was asleep, and Chandler was tired.

A pang of guilt latched onto him to forcing Chandler awake so long, and he should have just taken him home once they had found Norman. But instead, he had insisted on coming with. Norman was as much as his dad as Andrew was. If Norman was himself, he would turn bright red in embarrassment for all the 'trouble' people were going through for him.

Finally out of the city, Andrew relaxed in his seat as the road stretched out before him.

"Okay. Good night." Chandler moved the phone from his cheek and tapped the screen, apparently ending the call. He turned to look back at Andrew, started to speak, then yawned.

"Are you sure you don't want to go back home?" Andrew asked for the fourth time.

Chandler was already shaking his head. "Nah. You're stuck with me," he snickered, glancing down at his phone and tapping the screen. The glow of the phone was slightly distracting, but Andrew hushed his own complaints.

"...What did they say?" Andrew finally asked after a few moments, having been too busy helping Norman get comfortable in the car to ask before. The look on Norman's face when he saw his car had been nearly delightful, only for him to complain that it probably wasn't very fuel efficient and that he was wasting water in keeping it clean.

"Well, Mel said she's going to meet up wherever we go. Danai is still coming, she's grabbing a hotel for the night. Uh, Lauren won't be here for a while-"

"Did you tell her she didn't need to drop what she's doing and come?"

"Mhm. I counted six times."

Andrew huffed out another laugh.

"She's catching a flight in a couple days. Uh, Jeffrey tried calling me but..." But the chances of Norman hearing that familiar voice was much too strong. "...I texted him instead. He said he'll hang back until we get it explained."

Another huff, this time with his eyes rolling.

"Yeah. I don't know how long that'll last either."

The tapping continued for a few moments, before Chandler pocketed the phone. A rock dropped into his stomach, knowing that things were about to get serious when Chandler finally put away the phone.

Leaving Andrew in suspense, he leaned back into his seat and stretched, groaning out loudly. "...So!" He clapped his hands together, making Andrew jump and look at the mirror again to make sure the noise didn't wake up Norman. "What the _fuck_  are we doing?"

" _Language_!" Andrew hissed softly, only to get a bounty of laughs as a response.

"Dad, I've been working with you guys for almost a _decade_. I think I learned those words a _l_ _ong_  time ago. I'm not an innocent butterfly anymore."

Andrew grumbled, knowing that Chandler was right. Unclenching his hands from the steering wheel, he let out a sigh. "...Give me a little bit more to work with. Are you talking now, tomorrow, three weeks, six years...?"

"I mean how you promised him that we're going to go back to Alexandria. Which is in Senoia. And surrounded by people. _All_  the time. And not in a zombie apocalypse. _And_ -"

"Okay, okay, I understand!" Andrew groaned under his breath, swatting at Chandler and missing every time. It was odd to be at ease at a time like this, but Chandler was an easy-going person. It was infectious at time.

Drawing in a breath that nearly choked him, he let it out with another groan. "I can't take him back to the hospital. And... I can't take him to his house. I..." Andrew cleared his throat. "I have to make this work. And if that means we have to..."

The words stopped coming out of his mouth, falling into empty air. The only sound was the occassional bumping of the road and the blaring heater that was turning extremely uncomfortable. He reached out carefully and lowered down the air pressure, becoming a low hum instead. Chandler gave a long sigh of relief.

"...Chandler, I want you to make a call for me. Put it on loud or whatever you do, make the voice super loud out of the phone."

"Speaker?"

"Yeah, whatever."

Grumbling to himself, Chandler fished his phone out of his back pocket and the bright screen illuminated the car again. "Mkay, who am I calling?"

"Greg."

"Ooookay..." Tap tap, waiting, tap, waiting, waiting, tap tap.

_Ring..._

_Ring..._

_Ri-_

_"Greg Nicotero."_

"Greg? It's R-" Andrew winced. He hated staying within the Rick persona so long that he forgot to get back into the real world. Chances are, though, he wasn't going to be Andrew again for a long time. "It's Andrew."

_"Andy! Mel told me you got Norman! Take him back to the hospital when you can, I got security-"_

"Can't do that. I got a better idea."

Silence came from the other side of the phone, making pricks race up his spine. He flashed his eyes back to the rearview mirror, and Norman had barey moved from where he was sleeping. He needed just a little bit longer of him unconscious...

_"...Well, what is it?"_

Andrew swallowed, and tried to pull every bit of his failing confidence into his voice.

"I'm going to need you to open up the set."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ERMAHGAWD 100 KUDOS AHHHH I LUV U ALL


	12. Gimme Answers, Damn It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl is back home. Rick is there to comfort. Norman and Andrew are nowhere in sight.

"Jesus _Christ_ , he's heavy. You got the door?"

"Haven't moved!"

"Don't sass me, _Coral_."

It was by this point that Andrew was wondering if Norman had stored all that morphine in his body for just this moment, because he was _out_. Even when they had been sitting in the car waiting for security to flush through the set, Norman just continued snoring. Dawn was breaking by the time that they drove onto the set of Alexandria, and even when Norman would normally hide away from the light, he still slept.

Even being manually heaved out of the car and carried inside the house, his head lolled off to the side as he hung limp in Andrew's arms, completely out.

Carefully shuffling his way through the doorway and being mindful of Norman's dangling head and legs, Andrew first headed to the couch that faced the fireplace. None of the furniture in the house was meant for prolonged use, as it was expensive to furnish every square inch of these houses. Some of them were whicker or made so cheaply that sitting on them would lead to their collapse. It was impressive designing to be able to save money, not so good to actually live in.

Heaving a groan, Andrew could feel his arm muscles twitching under the strain of Norman's weight. Even when Norman had lost at least twenty pounds from his stay in the hospital, he still weighed a ton. He guessed it was held in his shoulders.

"Okay, here we go!"

The next sound was Andrew's entire will to live being yanked up to give him enough strength to heave Norman up onto the couch. And even after all of that, the other man was still asleep.

Maybe Andrew should ask for whatever medicines they put him on.

Exhaling sharply from the exertion, he glanced back to the still open doorway that Chandler held. "You still bunking for the night?" he called out to him, in no fear now of accidentally awakening Norman. The man was usually a light sleeper. Perhaps it took a life threatening escape from a hospital, fleeing across Atlanta, and being trapped on the top floor of a building for a good hour to wear him out.

Now letting the door swing shut but cushioning the blow with his foot, Chandler stepped back into the living room. They hadn't been using the Grimes house as a set very often, not with most of the work being gathering and training. It was rather refreshing to be inside again without camera rigs and boom mics filling up nearly any corner they can find.

"Yep. We still don't have any beds though," Chandler chirped as a reply, sending a smirk Andrew's way. "Meaning Norman has the best bed in the whole house."

A soft cuss slipped under Andrew's breath, standing back up straight. Of course. He had forgotten that all the mattresses had been burned during season seven. Now everyone slept on the floor or on whatever padding they could find. Running his fingertips through his curly hair, he looked back down to the comatose Norman.

"...Might as well let him enjoy it while he can. When he wakes up, he surely won't want to take up space from anyone else." That was a trait that they would need to pin down as soon as possible. Daryl often slept outside, even during the current season. He never was comfortable with a warm bed to sleep in at night and would rather the porch so he can keep a close eye on their surroundings.

Sometimes this was useful. This certainly was not one of those times.

Adjusting the blankets around Norman so that he wasn't quite suffocating in his cocoon, Andrew was just about to ask if Chandler would want to sleep in his room or downstairs when there was a sharp knock at the door.

Andrew and Chandler flinched. They shared an uneasy glance, until Chandler took it upon himself to walk up to the door. With slow, careful movements that mimic the wary Carl, he shifted his eye to the peephole.

"...Well, Carol's home," he sighed, and made no hesitation in opening the door and allowing Melissa inside.

It was almost astounding seeing the cast wearing whatever they went to bed with in whatever state they were in. Melissa seemed to appreciate the nightgown aspect, yet Andrew could see hints of sweatpants peaking out under her ankles. She was more awake than any of them, judging by her quick maneuvers to the couch.

"Are you sure he's alright? There's blood," she fretted in a whisper, hands delicately poking and prodding. They swept through Norman's ragged hair, ran across his shoulders, his arms, checked the pathetic attempt of bandages around where the IVs had been implanted into his arm...

"He's fine. Probably better than he has been for weeks," Andrew huffed, forcing himself to watch from afar. Norman shifted faintly in his sleep, but remedied it by curling deeper into his blanket fortress. Yet Melissa still ran her fingers through his hair, frowning and wincing as she inspected the damage up close.

Even from where he was standing, Andrew could clearly see the scaring from the impact. It looked almost like a burn, where random barbs had sank into his head and ripped open his scalp. He swallowed, knowing that there was stitching on the other side of his head from taking out and replacing the bone flap to help reduce the swelling from the recoil.

Constant reminders of the seconds he could never take back.

He looked away, instead staring down at the floor. Melissa cooed and whispered what sounded like sweet nothings to her 'Pookie', and his gut rolled. He shouldn't be jealous. Shouldn't be angry with how at ease Norman was with Melissa. He practically adored her, curling up to her when he needed support.

But he had to remind himself that this was still Daryl, and Carol was the only thing close to a friend that he had. ...Other than himself. He hoped.

"...Who else is comin'?" Andrew grunted, his accent turning as thick as the turmoil in his head.

Frowning in his direction, because Chandler had already told him this before, the young man gave a shrug. "Lauren won't be here for a while. I'm sure Greg is telling others. Danai still has a ways to drive."

So it was just them for the night. Or what was left of it. He glanced down at the watch at his wrist, only to heave a groan. It was almost seven in the morning, and they had spent five hours in near constant panic. Andrew was not one for drinking, but a beer sounded far too tempting after this night.

"Mel, mind getting the blankets from the other house?" Andrew asked, forcing himself to lower the sharpness. There was the near constant reminder that they were _helping_  Norman, and that it wasn't just him any longer.

Norman had support from everyone, and he was back in the environment he trusted. Sooner or later, he would be back on his feet, even if it was as Daryl.

The older man turned away, not bothering to watch if Melissa had done what he asked at all, and instead headed for the stairs. His hand ran across his face, scrubbing it hard in a fruitless attempt to ease his frustrations.

There would be hurdle after hurdle to overcome in the morning. This may have been a big step in Norman's recovery, but it could still go wrong. They would need a plan, but they needed _everyone_  here.

This house just got a whole lot smaller.

\---

...Warm. So warm...

When was the last time he was so comfortable? When was the last time he _let_  himself get comfortable? Comfort was weakness. There was no room for weakness in the apocalypse. At any time, these fools would realize that this world wasn't safe no more.

Never was safe.

His body was coming back to him in pieces, and the first thing he felt was the aching in his head that had never truly gone away. Complaining about it to the nurses and doctors would only mean wasting supplies that would help save someone else. As long as it wouldn't kill him, he'd deal with it.

But the throbbing was almost too much to stand, and within moments, there was pressure against his head. But not inside.

Against it.

Fingers running through his chopped off hair. Daryl was going to get it chopped off anyway, was gonna get grabbed by a walker at some point. Pretty sucky-ass way to go, too. Didn't die because the Saviors beat the literal shit out of him, didn't die from Pa, didn't die a few bagillion other ways...

Nah. Got grabbed by a walker and got a chunk taken out of his shoulder.

The pressure lifted from his head, but then rested back down. It was warm, and while he'd rather shove his head into a bucket of ice water to sooth the burning pain, it still felt rather nice. The hands weren't grabbing, taking chunks of his hair or trying to scratch at his still-sensitive scars. Nurses never let him use a mirror, but he knew they were there. How the fuck could he not.

Full of scars now. Just adding to the collection. At least these got a cool story behind him.

Survived being beaten by Lucille.

The pain faded away after a while, then numbed again. Maybe he was asleep again? Didn't dream. Just skipped some time, he guessed. The awareness was faster this time, and there was still that familiar ache, and then the fingers. Was it his own hands? Was he rubbing his head like a two-year-old with a scraped knee thinking it would help?

No, his hands were beside him. He could feel them, curled up in the warmth. The rest of his body, too, was in the warmth.

Now, Daryl never was one to know what safety felt like. Always lived his life on the edge of death. But if there was a feeling of safety... maybe it would be something like this.

"...Daryl," his name was called in the distance, and he could practically feel the blood racing faster through his body. He would recognize that southern drawl anywhere.

Desperately he grasped at the thin strands of consciousness, trying to shake loose of the warmth. He didn't want to sleep. He wanted to see Rick.

Maybe they could hunt. After he saw Judith. After he saw Hershel Jr. It would be just like old times... Just the two of them.

"C'mon, Daryl," the voice came again, still soothing. Rick was being gentle with him, which he _knew_  Daryl hated. He wasn't a pansy ass faggot.

Light suddenly pooled into his thoughts, leaving him blinking and trying to shield himself away. "There you go," Rick's voice soothed, prompting a second attempt to adjust to the light, if just to tell Rick that he didn't need no help.

This time he could pick the colors apart, and there was something directly in front of him helping to block the light. The hands shifted atop his head, shifting down before gently touching his cheek. Daryl tried his best not to wince, because within moments, he was sure that it was Rick knelt before him.

Last night was sluggish to fill his mind with memories, and it took a few moments to actually understand what had happened. He had escaped the hospital, hid for a while, Rick and Carl came and got him and... he fell asleep.

Such a cunning and swift hunter.

"How are you feeling?" was the question that came a bit clearer, but still foggy. God what he wouldn't give to find Merle's stash of drugs. Those certainly aren't for medical purposes but it would take his mind off the pain.

"...been better," he wheezed, far from the stable grunt that he had intended it to be. Damn it, Daryl, now you were going to worry Rick. Rick has enough to worry about.

Rick's thumb stroked slowly alongside his cheek, and Daryl felt no reason to move away. A bit of a smirk played on the other man's face, but there was still worry. Daryl could read him so easily, pathetically so. And he knew that the opposite was true.

Rick was worried about his injury. About his head. Side effects. Pain. But he was also worried about more than that, something deeper. Maybe it had to do with the fact that there had been a working hospital, which he was _damn_  sure was the one that took in Carol and Beth, and he had apparently missed the end of the apocalypse.

"Do you think you can eat something?"

Instinct took control with the shrug. "Don't gotta."

A huff of frustration. "Everyone's been fed. We haven't gone hungry in a _long_  time," Rick said, and it seemed like he meant it. Maybe it was because of the Savior's amount of food that they raided. Maybe it was because the apocalypse was over.

Who the fuck knows. It still meant that the family was safe.

The officer didn't wait for a response this time, as he got it when Daryl let his body relax just a bit. He rose to his feet, stripping his fingers away from Daryl's face in a motion that left him faintly aching at the loss. It was a distraction from the pain, he told himself. Just a distraction.

Daryl must have dozed off, because the next sight he was greeted to was Rick sitting on the floor, fiddling with something in his hands. There was a bag sitting on one side of Rick, and a plate of food on the other.

There was an attempt to scootch the plate closer to where he was laying, but Daryl barely shifting was enough to alert his 'nurse'.

"You're awake," Rick murmured, stating the obvious. Daryl didn't even dignify that with an answer, and resumed his attempts for the plate.

It smelled _fucking awesome._ There were eggs, bacon, a little bit of toast... It looked like one of those pictures on menus in diners. All pretty and neat, and somehow, it was all for him.

Once again reading his wishes, Rick picked up the plate, only to set it farther away. The glare Daryl threw at him was answered with the hands that shifted to his shoulders. "Not gonna be able to eat all curled up like that," he grunted, releasing one shoulder to tug at the blankets that he only just now realized trapped him.

God, why did they let him take all the blankets. It was going to get colder soon enough. Rick didn't even have the fucking fire going overnight.

"I can do it," Daryl attempted to growl, but just like before, it failed. Maybe it was just the fact that he could never raise his temper at Rick anymore. It sucked in a way. He liked seeing Rick getting all flustered and turn into the dictator he brought out on special occassions.

It ended up with Daryl still accepting Rick's help to sit up, and once he was sitting correctly, he was given the plate. As if already guessing Daryl's habits, it took no time for him to start picking up pieces of food between his fingers and shoving it into his mouth. Rick had made sure he didn't go hungry at the hospital, and would sometimes sneak him something like a chocolate bar.

He wasn't sure why chocolate. Never really cared for it and was always too expensive to buy when he was little.

Rick was silent as he let the hunter eat in peace, but it was only a few minutes until the meal was polished off. As soon as he had looked up from the plate, Rick had reached over and had taken the empty plate out of his hand to put back in the kitchen.

Already he knew that something was up. Rick was too quiet. Half the time he couldn't get the man to shut up about some plan he had, about their future, a bunch of bullshit that Daryl didn't believe would work out yet somehow did.

Daryl listened to the footsteps as they returned back to the living room, running across the plush carpet that was better than any bed he had before the apocalypse. It reminded him that he had to get his ass off the couch so someone else could use it. Maybe Maggie wanted it. Or Michonne.

Anyone, really.

But the hand touched his shoulder and sat him back down, leading to a few grumbles slipping from him. "You've been in a coma for years. I don't think anyone's gonna kick you off the couch for a nap. You gotta rest, get better."

The couch creaked as Rick sat down on his right, only a few inches of space between their bodies. Rick was the only one allowed to get so close to him without being spat at or growled away. The only one who could lay a hand on his shoulder as he did now, fingers running slowly across the ugly cloth they dressed him in the hospital.

"...'y gonna tell me the fuck's goin' on?" he murmured, watching Rick from the corner of his right eye. It had been easier to handle the blindless of his left eye when he was in the hospital, as all there was on the left of his bed was a wall. Now there would be people approaching him, and walkers could sneak up on him, might not be able to see prey...

Rick nodded his head once. Then there was silence.

A pungent silence that stained them as Daryl stared at Rick, and Rick stared at the floor. Had there been a clock, he wouldn't doubt the ticking would have driven him nuts.

Rick cleared his throat, and Daryl nearly jumped off the couch. Fucking asshole.

"...Pick a number, one through five."

"You gotta be fuckin' with me."

"I don't know how else to do this, Daryl!"

"How 'bout you start with _why the fuck I ain't dead?_ "

Rick audibly swallowed. The scowl across Daryl's face didn't soften. No, he wanted answers. He was tired of Rick pushing off subjects because he said that he needed to rest. Now he was _d_ _one_  resting. Had been resting for years, according to Rick.

"...I told you, Europe found a cure for the outbreak. They'd been treating people up in D.C. before workin' their way over. Found us after you... blacked out."

Daryl snorted. Fucking fairy tales. But at least that story had stayed the same between the Alexandria family that he had been able to see. He couldn't help but wish that Rick had stalled hitting him, then. Would feel a lot better without this constant ache in his head. But he would accept the answer until he heard otherwise.

"Mkay. The fuck 'r the walkers?"

"Gone. They're all gone."

More silence met the words.

"The, uh... They quarentined us. Gave us the cure so we wouldn't turn when we died. Pretty much the reason why you didn't turn on us."

"...Or 'cause my brain was scrambled."

Rick winced, and Daryl bit his tongue. Shouldn't talk that way to Rick. Didn't want to hurt Rick. He was about all he had left in this new world.

"Anyway," Rick grunted, lifting his eyes to stare at the fireplace instead. "Army mowed 'em all down. Used your trick with the oil on the lake and blew the motherfuckers up with a rocket launcher." The couch creaked, and now Rick was looking at him, one eyebrow quirked.

"Where the _hell_  did you get that anyway?"

"Found 'em."

"...Of course you did."

Daryl didn't realize right away that he was chewing on his thumb until he felt a spark of pain, but kept chewing. Helped fight away the stress. Pain was a distraction.

Daryl lifted his head, swiveling it around to gain a grasp of his surroundings. Yeah, it was Rick's house for sure. But it... It looked different. Weird things on the walls. Didn't Rick have that morse code poster thing? Now it was just... Just a lot of _stuff._

_Thangs._

Daryl almost snorted.

A hand cupped his shoulder and patted him twice, this time not making him flinch. It was only them, he supposed. Just them.

"The fuck's everyone at?"

"Uh, let's see..."

Rick's eyebrows furrowed with concentration, tapping a finger on the shoulder of the couch.

"Maggie won't be here for a few more days. Carol is around... somewhere. Carl is upstairs..."

"Michonne up there too?"

The fingers tightened on the shoulder. A rock dropped to the pit of his stomach. No, he had seen Michonne. She wasn't dead. In fact, she had just about bounced out of her skin when she saw him.

"...She's coming. Still driving, I think."

"She ain't here?"

The couch creaked and Rick shifted uncomfortably.

"A lot has happened since you were hurt," was all that he would say, and the subject was dropped. Then, there was the silence.

Daryl carefully nudged his shoulder against Rick's. _I got you._

Rick patted his back. _I know_.

Silence again as they both stared at the unlit fireplace, and none of them could think of the words they wanted to say. All that mattered was that after years of being asleep, he had awoken to Rick still by his side.

The same as always.


	13. Not Adding Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick's still hiding things. And Daryl won't remain in his little bubble forever.

Daryl couldn't remember the last time he felt this weak. The fact that he couldn't hold down his breakfast for more than a half an hour, before puking and being in so much pain that he started wishing for a knife to the temple, spoke volumes.

So that was a thing. Puking like he was a two year old. Turns out his insides weren't happy with having solid food for the first time in… years? So Daryl could understand that. What he couldn't understand was the fact that  _ no one _ had thought about that before giving him a heaping breakfast he could barely finish.

That entire episode had taken what little strength Daryl had left.

When he managed to scrape up enough strength to open his eyes again, Rick was there. Always there. Bastard needed to go to bed.

“Do you think you can get up?” Rick asked, his voice soft. Daryl tried to hold back some well deserved attitude. Judging by Rick breaking eye contact, and looking up towards Daryl’s hair, he didn't contain it enough. He had been doing that ever since Daryl woke up. 

Unfurling his arm from within the comforts of the blanket, Daryl reached up. Was there something on his head?

Just as he was going to reach his hairline, though, Rick grabbed him by the wrist. “Don't. You still have stitches.”

Of course he did. Daryl wasn't allowed to do anything, apparently. Wasn't allowed to look at the mirror, couldn't get his crossbow, couldn't leave the fucking room…

If this was all he was going to be allowed to do until he healed, just put him back out again.

“We need to get you cleaned up.”

Cleaned up from what? Narrowing his eyes, Daryl lowered his hand and inspected it. There were still tiny holes in his hand from those needles. IVs or whatever. Yeah, there was still blood, and he knew he scraped his knee climbing the fence, then there was the gash in his other hand from… Whatever the fuck happened at the hospital.

Other than that, Daryl was fine.

Having already decided that there was no need to waste water or energy to just wash off a little dirt and blood, Daryl huffed and pulled the blanket back over himself. What, they went how long without showers? That whole shit before Alexandria? Months? Who knows. Still fuzzy.

Actually, everything was fuzzy. Doctors said that his memories were going to take time to recover because of some impact to some lobe which caused this to swell and that to bleed and… Daryl just didn't understand.

“Daryl…”

Ah damn. Of course she would be here.

Stifling a groan, Daryl curled tighter within his blanket fortress as small hands shook him gently by the shoulders.

“Daryl. You need to get cleaned up.”

“Get off me, woman,” Daryl groaned, poking a hand through his shield to swat away her hand. As expected, it did nothing.

“Daryl,” Carol sighed, this time grabbing onto the edge of the blanket. “I'm not afraid to drag you. Or I'll get the hose. Again.”

Shit, not the hose. Carol wasn't one to make threats lightly.

Throwing off the blanket with a sudden heave, Daryl found himself fumbling to stand up. “Alright, shit!” he growled, doing his best to glare at whoever was closest. Rick was still knelt down beside the couch, Carol instead gathering up the blanket so Daryl could not hide beneath it again.

Rick grabbed a hold of his arm before Daryl even had the chance to wobble to his feet. “Easy, Daryl,” Rick murmured, blue eyes straying away from Daryl's face again. “Just let me help you up. Don't make it harder than it's gotta be.”

Why was everyone treating him like he was made of glass? Scowling, Daryl just muttered his complaints as Rick pulled him up. He ran across fucking Atlanta. Daryl could handle stairs.

It took three steps for Daryl to change his mind, and he leaned heavily into Rick. It felt like his limbs were dropping off, aching and throbbing. Each step sent a throb through his head, and he was painfully aware of the pulsing, like his brain was trying to burst from his skull.

“Stay with me, I'll get you something once we're done.” Yeah, you fucking better, Rick. Bitched enough when you slammed your hand into that spike walker.

What Daryl had expected was a quick shower, maybe even a bucket if the pipes weren't working again. But as soon as he turned the corner, Daryl immediately pulled against Rick’s grasp.

“I ain't taking a fucking bath, man,” Daryl growled, gesturing to the filled tub with disgust.

Rick huffed out a chuckle, only to tug Daryl in further. “We have to be careful with your stitches, so no shower. Gotta keep your head above water.”

His scowl sharpening, Daryl finally tugged at Rick to pull himself forward. Best to get it over with, if just so he could go back to sleep. Escape the pain and throbbing. It wasn't until Rick sat him down on the edge of the tub that Daryl realized that Rick wasn't leaving. Instead, he just took a small step back.

“...What?” Daryl grunted, grasping at the tattered hospital gown he was still dressed in.

Rick’s eyes flicked from his face to his gown and then back to his face. Then, when Daryl still didn't respond, he did it again. By the third time, Rick just sighed in defeat. “I need to help you, Daryl. Take it off.”

In an instant, Daryl's body stiffened up, and his hands clawed at the thin fabric. No, he wasn't going to take it off. Not in front of Rick. Or _ anyone. _

“No.”

“Daryl-”

_ “No!” _

Rick’s teeth clicked together, and his hand fisted at his side. “Daryl, I'm not fighting with you on this. Do it.”

Clenching his hands even tighter into the fabric, to the point that he could feel it rip, Daryl looked away. Daryl didn't want to look weak. Because he knew that it would be all Rick could think of. He lost muscle, lost weight, he felt like his bones could crack… And then there were the scars. His shameful past weaknesses.

A hand grasped him by the chin and pulled Daryl's head up, forcing him to meet pale blue eyes, that looked dull and exhausted, like scuffed marbles. “Make it easy for me, please. For me.”

In that moment, Daryl found no use in arguing. No, just let himself be bossed around. Let Rick feel good about himself for taking care of him. Like a child.

...Like a child.

As Rick stood him back up and turned him around, something that felt much too vulnerable to take, Daryl let that thought sink in.

Rick was hiding something from him. It didn't take a scientist to know that there was something missing. Something bothering him. There was something Rick wasn't telling him.

The thin fabric slipped down his shoulders slowly, exposing his back before pooling at his feet. Another shiver ran up his spine as Rick placed a careful hand on his back, and Daryl knew he was trying his best not to touch the scars. At least Rick didn't speak, didn't ask questions, and instead helped Daryl into that damn tub.

But fuck, Rick made the right call on the bath. Within seconds, the warmth eased the tension that lingered in his strained muscles, and had Rick not grabbed him by the shoulder to pull him back up, Daryl would have happily sunk into the sudsy water.

“Hey, what did I say?” Rick rumbled. Daryl could’t see him, but he’d bet anything that Rick had that damned little smile on his face. The one that made Daryl feel like he’d taken a punch to the gut.

Muttering, Daryl reluctantly sat himself up in the warm water, letting his eyes close completely. He soaked in the silence broken only by the occasional rattle as Rick messed with something in the medicine cabinet. Let him do whatever the hell he wanted. Other than a few stings on some cuts, this was the most at ease Daryl had been since he woke up for the first time.

But then those thoughts came back. Thoughts of the people he had seen and those he hadn't. Those who were here and those who should be.

“Lil’ Asskicker…” Daryl breathed, keeping his eyes closed. The noises stopped, and he could feel Rick’s eyes burning into him. He didn't want to see Rick's reaction. Not when he was sure he was about to open an unhealed wound. 

“She's gone, isn't she.”

More silence. Every second made his heart sink further and further into the creeping dread. Rick wouldn't have hesitated to tell him otherwise. It already gave Daryl his answer.

“...Yeah. Yeah, she's…”

Daryl didn't need anything else. Just the time to let that sink in. Confirmation that the world was still as cruel as ever to take away a tiny life that had given Rick purpose. Hell, given  _ himself  _ purpose. From the moment he’d picked up the bundle that was tucked into random towels the’d scavenged, he’d felt that connection. That urge to protect. It didn't matter if she wasn't his blood. She was still  _ theirs.  _ All of them.

It was a chance for something good in their shitty world.

“Sit up.”

Blinking open his blurry eyes, Daryl glanced up to Rick who was back to hovering over him. He was holding a bottle Daryl recognized as peroxide and a rag. Shit.

Rick glanced down to the rag in his hand, and let out a sigh. “I'm sorry, but this will hurt.”

Yeah, it was gonna fucking hurt.

* * *

Rick was ‘kind’ enough to give Daryl some painkillers, but all it did was take  the edge off. Not only did Rick insist on cleaning up some of the cuts on his body, but he washed out all of his stitches. Twice. With peroxide.

What the  _ fuck. _

Rick deserved every single curse Daryl had thrown at him, along with a few new ones that just flew off his tongue. Daryl could still feel the throbbing pain of the stitching on his head far after Rick had replaced the bandages Daryl had ripped off. Well, attempted to replace. He ended up dropping them into the bath water.

It was fucking obvious that Rick didn't know shit about first aid, which by itself was worrying. Rick was losing his edge already. At least when they first got to Alexandria, Rick toyed around with that officer shit again. Now…

Now he didn't even have his gun. No weapons anywhere. What, were there no raids anymore? No more assholes thinking they could break in and take their food? There was no way the world was back to normal after just a  _ couple of years. _

Daryl had his glare fixed onto the open doorway, huddled in the drained tub like a wet rat. Rick has fussed his ass off when Daryl tried to get out of the tub on his own, and now he expected Daryl to just sit and wait while he fetched more bandages.

That's all Daryl got to do lately. Sit and wait. Wait for the nurses to bring him fucking jello and liquid food. Wait for the therapists to help him out of the bed to test his motor skills. He was  _ fine,  _ why could no one see that? He survived. Now just... Just let things go back to the way they were. 

When he started to shiver Daryl gave up on waiting for Rick. If he wanted to fuck around all day, let him. Daryl would just go see Carl, or Carol.

Maybe he’d get answers out of them.

Getting out of the tub was harder than Daryl cared to admit, with his shaky legs and the persistent feeling of lightheadedness whenever he was on his feet. Had it not been for the well placed towel rack, his ass would have been on the floor.

Taking the towel, Daryl started drying off. Though as soon as he started walking over to the sink, to maybe peel off that fucking bag over the mirror and see what the hell happened to his face, the world started spinning a bit too fast for his liking. So instead, he resorted to sitting down on the edge of the tub if just to make sure he didn’t end up passing out on the floor. As he ran the soft fabric over his body, he took note of the changes. 

He’d lost weight. His skin had lost the tan that came from countless hours in the sun, hunting both prey and walkers. It actually made him look sickly.

There were other changes, too. Tattoos Daryl didn't remember ever getting. Little ‘x’s between his knuckles. A skull on the back of his hand. Random names that he had no connection to.

And who the fuck was  _ Norman? _

Placing those questions firmly on his ‘what the hell is happening’ list, Daryl finally pulled himself back to his feet. He tucked the towel tight around his waist, then grabbed a second one just to throw it over his shoulders and back. Hide the scars. That instinct still lingered.

Now properly dried off, Daryl stalked as angrily out the bathroom as his body allowed. First, he wanted to know how many other secrets they were hiding from him. Next, he wanted to go back to his home. After that, his crossbow.  _ Then _ all this shit about Negan being or not being at the hospital. And only after Daryl got those answers would he even  _ consider- _

“-can't keep expecting this to not blow up in our faces.”

Michonne. When did she get home?

The previous conversation on the couch made his shoulders tense, and he leaned against the wall right before the stairs. They were in the living room, whoever was talking.

“I didn't know what else to say, of course he's gonna notice she's not here!”

Rick. Talking about Judith. Rick and Michonne were talking about Judith.

Another ache pushed against his chest, forcing out his breath. Little Judy. Asskicker. Daryl couldn't believe she was dead.

But this world wasn't safe for kids. Just one slip-up, and it's death. Or… was this  _ after  _ the world somehow healed and went back to normal.

“So now whoever he doesn't see is just dead, huh?”

There was malice in her voice, but tiredness. A weariness Daryl barely recognized as coming from Michonne at all. She always seemed so sure of herself, and to be collapsing all of a sudden… What happened?

“You told him Lauren was coming. He's expecting to see her with baby Hershel. What, he magically died too? Or were we just  _ lying _ to him so he didn't go back into a coma?”

Lauren? Daryl didn't know a Lauren. But Hershel… Hershel junior. Maggie's baby. Was that a lie?

His lungs compressed in upon themselves as he listened, every word only making his thoughts churn with confusion.

“I don't know,” Rick groaned, his voice rough. “Just… give me time. Give  _ him  _ time. We don't know how long this will last. He could-”

“Bullshit. I saw that video. He was going to kill Jeffrey. Norman's not safe here. He needs to go back.”

Go back?

No, he wasn't going back. Wasn't going back where Beth died. Where he saw _Negan._ Who were these people? Norman? Jeffrey? Were they the new enemy? Were they allies? The name on his chest, was that him? There was something wrong with that place, nothing made sense!

Nothing made  _ sense! _

The words were still echoing as Daryl pushed himself off of the wall, only to immediately collapse against it again with a solid thud. The talking stopped.

Shit, no.  _ Move. _

Gritting his teeth, Daryl turned and limped down the other end of the hall, scratching along the wall for whatever support he could get. Just get away. He wasn't going back there again. All those people, staring at him. Like he was a monster.

Daryl wasn't a monster. He was normal. He was normal! Everyone else, they just acted like nothing happened! But it did, things happened, and people died, and Merle died, and came back, and he had to put him down, then the prison, so many people, all sick, the governor, Alexandria, Glenn, Abraham, Denise, Negan, the bat, the pain,  _ everything…! _

“Daryl.”

The thoughts vanished, and thick fog lifted from his mind. Daryl blinked rapidly, staring two stories down at the ground, still halfway out the window that he couldn't recall opening or climbing out on. His foot dangled over the edge, while his hands clenched on the window frame, shaking. The towel that had been tucked over his shoulder had now landed on the dirt below.

“Daryl, I'm going to help you back in. Okay?”

Okay. Rick knows what to do. Rick will help.

“I'm going to have to touch you.” Rick’s voice was closer. “Can I touch you?”

Yeah. Trust you.

“Daryl?”

“Y-y…” Losing his words, Daryl just nodded. His eyes were still focused on the ground outside. Escape seemed so close. If he just went to the woods, then all of this could go away, Daryl could hunt, just escape, no one else, no lies, no nothing, just-

“Deep breaths. Take a deep breath for me. I'm going to help you back in.”

Okay, deep breaths. In. Wait. Out. Wait. In. Wait.

Rick’s firm hands grasped first onto his shoulder, and then his waist. Sure, certain hands. Rick knew what to do. Follow Rick.

“There you go. Easy. Be careful.”

The outside drifted away from him, and at first Daryl felt like he was falling, only to be pressed against Rick’s awaiting grasp. Rick backed up a few paces, long enough for Daryl to find his footing, but didn’t let go just yet. Daryl’s empty mind was grateful, because spilling out on the floor would be embarrassing as fuck.

Three deep breaths passed, and Daryl more or less came back to himself, his panic contained. For now. Rick’s hands remained on his sides, a silent support until Daryl finally shifted a few steps out of his grasp.

Placing a hand against the wall, Daryl focused on steadying himself, but his eyes continued to drift out the window. Escape was so close. Get away from all of… this.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Daryl wheezed, something that could have been a laugh. Here he was, standing with a towel tight around his waist, having just about thrown himself out a window, and Rick wanted to know what he was thinking. Well.

Forcing his eyes on the ground, Daryl sucked in one more deep breath. “You fuckin’ kidding me, RIck?” he grunted, but kept his eyes on the ground. He needed to just… think. Process what people were saying. What was  _ happening. _ There was no sound behind him, and Daryl assumed that Rick was just waiting for him to spill out his soul.

Well, if there was anyone here he would do that to… Might as well be the guy who had been the most straight up with him. Rick told Judith was dead. What else could there be.

“I don’t… What the fuck is going on, man?” Daryl grunted, finally lifting his head and looking at Rick over his shoulder. Rick was standing at his right side. Wise choice. He must have told the others, because there wasn’t an idiot yet that came up on his blind left side. At least there apparently weren’t walkers to grab him from the left. Hunting might get fucked up, though. It would need some getting use to.

Rick just met Daryl’s gaze, still silent. It almost made Daryl bristle. Rick held all the answers, but he wasn’t telling Daryl everything. After all this, there was still  _ so much _ he needed to know…! “What’s… Happened? I get the walkers are dead. I get that somehow  _ everything's _ better now, because why fucking not,” Daryl shook his head, his jaw clenching. “But no one’s telling me shit! Where is everyone!”

“They’ve left. Moved on. Other people moved in, and it’s just a town now.”

Slitting his eyes, Daryl growled lowly. “Can’t believe they all just left. After all that shit?”

Rick shrugged. Fucking  _ shrugged.  _ “Carol’s in Atlanta. Michonne’s out of the state. Everyone else just went home. It’s not a stronghold, just a town.”

“Fine,” Daryl snapped, and finally stood up straight. It was only then that he took a few moments to look around the room he was in. It was Rick and Michonne’s, well, Rick’s bedroom. Blankets on the ground. No mattress. Just like he remembered. In all those years, Rick didn’t get another mattress?

But that wasn’t important. Not quite. “The hospital. I  _ saw  _ Negan. It was him. You said he was  _ dead.” _

“And he is. That wasn’t Negan. It wa-”

“Like fuck it wasn’t him!” Daryl pushed himself off of the wall, taking the few steps across the room to stand right before Rick. He didn’t take a step back, instead just held his gaze. “That was Negan! You’re lying to me!”

Rick’s jaw clenched, but did not break his gaze. Daryl knew Rick too well. Knew when he was lying. When he couldn’t look him in the eye…

“His name is Jeffrey. And he’s  _ supposed  _ to look like Negan. That’s his job.”

Daryl paused, his jaw falling open to counter it, but… What? Why?

Carefully, Rick reached out and grasped onto Daryl’s shoulder, and gave the slightest tug. “Let’s get you dressed. I’ll take you back downstairs. Then we can all talk this through.”

Another tug, but Daryl couldn’t look away from Rick’s eyes. Please,  _ please  _ just look away. Lie to me that Negan was dead. Just… stop making it worse. Stop making it harder. One last tug, and Daryl finally stumbled a step forward, and their gaze broke because of it. Now free from his gaze, Rick stared to the open doorway and started to pull Daryl along.

“There’s a lot we have to talk about, Daryl. But it’s gonna clear up a lot of this. I promise.”


	14. Truth or Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to sit Norman down and try to link his and Daryl's world. It doesn't work.

Seeing Carl, Carol and Michonne waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs wasn’t exactly thrilling for Daryl to see. They all wore some mask of calm and happiness, each rushing forward to help Daryl to the couch, only to be growled away. He wasn’t helpless. He had a feeling that they wouldn’t believe him. If they wouldn’t even let him look at his wounds, then they  _ clearly  _ were trying to hide something.

No more than a few seconds since Daryl sat down, Rick had nudged the other three out of the room. At least Rick left him some clothes to get dressed in while they were gone. Some amount of privacy. Though he waited until Rick followed the three out and into the other room, closing the door behind them.

It could have been minutes. Probably was, but it felt like hours of hearing nothing but silence. His hearing must be failing him, because he couldn’t hear a damn word they were saying on the other side of that door. It left Daryl just sitting on the couch, now clothed, trying to make any sense of his own thoughts. Rick said that the man was… Jeffrey. Michonne mentioned a Jeffrey. How he attacked him in the hospital. So that at least wasn’t a lie, if Michonne confirmed it without Rick’s input.

Then who was Norman. He wasn’t safe. Another person? Huffing under his breath, Daryl stared at the unlit fireplace. This place looked like it was lived in. Wasn’t covered in dust. But it was… Too clean. Glancing around him, Daryl could see nothing on the ground. None of Judith’s to-... No, she was dead.

Swallowing down the ache, he sank back into the cushion. Maybe Rick didn’t actually live here. Reminded him too much of Judith. It wouldn’t be unheard of.

Rubbing his hand against his face, he winced, and the ever present throbbing in his head spiked. Shit, was this what he was going to have to live with now? Constant headaches? How was he supposed to hunt? Was he supposed to get a fucking  _ job,  _ now? There wasn’t shit he could do.

Should get some fucking pension from the shit he had to do. Killing to keep humanity alive and all that shit.

His mind was still swirling over the fact that the world was back to normal, which meant he was a white trash useless redneck with a bashed in skull, when the door finally opened.

RIck came out first, his pale blue eyes locking onto Daryl’s instantly. He frowned, then crouched down in front of him. “How are you feeling?” he asked, worry lacing his tone.

“Fucking dandy,” Daryl scorned. He was sick of hearing that question. Every time someone walked into his hospital room. How are you feeling, Daryl? How’s your head? Your eyes? How about your hands? Moving okay? Shit, he knew he got hit in the head, but come on. He was breathing, speaking and thinking. Good enough for now.

Rick sucked in a deep breath, then glanced over his shoulder. Michonne, Carl and Carol had inched into the room at this point, all looking at each other. Carl was rubbing at his bandage patch. They didn’t get him a proper patch by now? Something other than bandages? Or was his eye as fucked up as his head, and never was gonna be back to the way it was. Probably.

“We have a lot to talk about. I just want you to know that you can ask questions at the end. Just let us talk first. Okay?”

Fucking finally. Someone was gonna sit down and tell him, start to finish, what the fuck was going on.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Daryl leaned back into the cushions. “This is such shit,” he muttered to himself, but kept his eyes on Rick. Waiting for him to begin.

Soon enough, Carol sat down beside him, and he could feel her worried stare. Quit it. He wasn’t dead. Wasn’t broken. Michonne stood a few feet away from Rick, and Carl sat down at Daryl’s feet, leaning against the couch. He was playing with the edges of his shirt, and wouldn’t look up at him.

“Okay.” Rick finally sat down properly, resting his arms on his knees. Maybe they needed some more damn chairs in this place. After another long pause, Rick took in a deep breath.

“Negan’s been dead. We already covered that. Took care of that before society started coming back together. It took a few months to exterminate the rest of the walkers, but they got it done. It was after everything settled down that…” Rick paused, looking up at Carol.

“It was after that when some people decided to put together a bit of a… I guess you could say, a documentary,” Carol said slowly, and Daryl whipped his head to look back at her much too fast, since the room spun the moment he did it. Wincing, he ducked his head and forced his eyes to close, and waited for the throbbing to fade a bit again.

“We were one of the last actual people in Georgia, apparently. Ones that survived.” Rick took over again, but Daryl didn’t raise his head. “Some parts of the states didn’t even get touched, and they quarantined off the states that did. So people wanted to know what happened.”

“Fucking Christ…”

Rick ignored his mutter and continued. “Negan had been long dead by that time, but they wanted to show how much people could do, kinda like a warning for the future if anything like this happened again. How bad humanity could get. So, they hired Jeffrey.” Clearing his throat, Rick scooted closer, and tapped at Daryl’s chin.

It was only after a few moments that Daryl lifted his head again, staring into Rick’s soft eyes. Fuck, why was Rick telling him the truth if the truth was this… He didn’t even know. Wasn’t the strangest thing that happened, since walkers happened, but… A documentary? Really?

He opened his mouth for a question, but Rick cut him off. “Jeffrey is an actor. He’s done films before. The reason he was there was because he wanted to meet you.” Rick smirked just slightly and glanced to Carol. “He’s a big fan. Heard all about your kills, what you’ve done, how you hunted, all that. He just didn’t really… Think.”

“It isn’t one of his strong suits,” Carl muttered, and Rick snorted.

“Quiet,” Rick chuckled, meeting Daryl’s eyes again. “He isn’t the only one. There’s other actors. For people who… Aren’t here anymore.” Daryl couldn’t contain his flinch, and dropped his eyes to the ground again. “Like… Shane. Beth. Glenn.”

The names hung in the air much longer than necessary, and the other three struggled to fill the gap. Carol spoke up, saying something about how Daryl could stay here if he wanted to. Carl said he had his own place now, so Daryl could stay there. Michonne just muttered something to Rick that he didn’t care to listen to. All Daryl could think about was what this meant.

People were watching them. Watching every horrible thing they had to do to survive. Carol killing the sick. Carl killing his mother. Their attack on the Savior’s outpost. How they just… Killed. And killed. Murdered and slaughtered.

After a lengthy pause, Daryl muttered, “So just… Makin’ movies about us.”

“Television.”

“‘Bout what happened.”

“Yes.”

“‘Bout people who died. Killed. People  _ we _ killed.”

“...Yeah.”

Daryl shoved himself off of the couch, head still down even as he wavered on his feet. Hands had already grabbed onto his shoulders and arms, but he yanked himself out of their grasp.

“Daryl-” Rick started.

“I don’t wanna fuckin’ hear it,” Daryl snapped, glaring back at the man still sitting on the floor. “If this is a fucking joke, it ain’t funny!”   
  
“It’s not, honey,” Carol soothed, resting her hands onto his shoulders and tugging in an attempt to pull him back to the couch.

“Let me go!” Daryl roared, pulling out of her grasp and staggering a few feet away. Just to get away from their hands. Get away from their words. From  _ them.  _ “This is all just some big performance for all y’all, ain’t it?  _ Actors?” _

“I know it sounds insane, but just sit down, and-” Michonne started, only for Daryl to glare deep at her. She was the last one he wanted to hear from.

She did shit to Rick. Broke him. Broke up with him, whatever they wanted to fucking say. She was no better than Lori! Just fucking around with Rick, going on little  _ sex escapes _ while the rest of them were trying to fight a war!

A deep anger boiled inside him, and it broke loose before he had a chance to contain it. “Fuck off, I don’t give a shit what you gotta say! You just get to whore it off for the cameras!”

Michonne jolted, her mouth dropping open as shock took over her features, mixed with pain. Fuck it. He never liked her. Yeah, she took care of Carl, but so did he. So did a shit ton of people. All she was, all she  _ ever  _ was, was a bitch with a katana.

It was her fucking fault Merle died. Her fault the Governor attacked. All he wanted was  _ her.  _ But Daryl was damn sure that for whatever fucking cameras they got on them, they just didn’t give a shit about that. No. Fucking heroes, all of them.

“Daryl!” Rick suddenly shouted, jerking up to his feet with a deep scowl on his face. “Apologize, right now!”   
  
“I ain’t your kid!” Daryl countered, glaring deep into the hard blue eyes. “Quit protecting her! That’s all they’re gonna see, right? You  _ protecting  _ everyone? Huh?”

Rick blinked rapidly, and the scowl faded. Stepping closer, he lowered his voice. “What are you talking about? Who?”

“That’s all you showed ‘em, right? All your big accomplishments? We were shitty people, Rick! Still are! We killed people!” Daryl snarled. “And after all that shit, everything we’ve done, you’re gonna just  _ broadcast  _ it? Gonna go get famous, be a movie star, all that shit?”

Carol and Carl were both getting to their feet now, Carl immediately pushing past Rick to reach Daryl. “It’s not like that. It isn’t for us, Daryl. It’s-”

“Bullshit.” Snapping his eyes back to Rick, he bared his teeth. “Bet you made yourself a fucking hero, didn’t you. All about how you _ saved _ us all.”

His hands fisted at his sides, and for a moment, he actually thought about punching Rick right in his face. Their world was a shitty, awful world. Full of secrets and lies. And everyone just… Went along with it.

Turning on his heels, he stomped up the stairs, even as he had to cling onto the railing as he did it. Fuck this. Fuck all of it. Fuck this shitty world. Should have just gone back to the way it was. Back to their shitty world where all they had to think about was hunting and keeping their borders safe. Not…  _ profiting  _ off the disgusting things they did to survive.

Someone followed him the entire way from the stairs to the hallway, but Daryl didn’t care. Bet they were going to put this in their stupid movies, too. Daryl, the insane hunter, the killer, fucked up in the head and haunted by the horrible things he had done. Things he didn’t doubt Rick showed as heroic moments.

They weren’t. Nothing about them was.

As Daryl stepped into Rick’s old room, he heard someone close the door behind them. “Daryl, just listen to me. It’s not like that,” Rick pleaded, his voice gravely and low. 

Turning his head, Daryl stared back at him through narrowed eyes. “Then what is it, Rick? This ain’t about being the fucking leader that saved humanity? That’s kinda fucked up, even for you!”

Another ache opened in the pit of his stomach as he stared at Rick. At the man he trusted with his life. His brother. The last person he thought would pull this shit.

Rick swallowed, but kept his voice low. “It’s not like that at all. It’s like... “ Rick paused, obviously struggling for his words. Shaking his head, he continued. “This isn’t about fame. It hasn’t changed anything. We’re still us.”

“Yeah, with fucking fans. Famous. Probably got little figures with your face all over them.” Rick flinched at that, and Daryl didn’t need anymore proof. “You  _ sold  _ our lives. And fucking actors? You trying to forget they’re dead? That they’re fucking gone? Replacing them for your little show?”

“Daryl, just take a breath-”   


“I ain’t doing shit!” Closing the distance, Daryl pressed his hand against Rick’s chest and pushed him a good step back or two. “Everyone is dead! And you’re making money off of the shit we did to survive!”

Rick’s eyes turned wide as he staggered back, almost pressed up against the wall. That little voice in the back of his head told him to stop, to let Rick talk, but Rick had done enough talking. Daryl couldn’t believe how he fell for all the lies. No, not lies. Just half-truths. Skirting around the truth. Changing the subject. Yeah, Saviors were dead. They killed them.

But what about the rest of the world? Did they revolve around their story, tuning in like sheep every week to watch more of what _ Rick  _ did to save humanity? Heroic sacrifices?

A pang ran through his head, and he snarled softly to himself, grabbing at the choppy ends of his hair and pulling. Nothing made sense. Nothing! Cameras? Stories? Did people know about him? Who was he? Was he someone else to the rest of the world? Who was Rick? Who was  _ anyone?! _

“Daryl!”

He fell to his knees hard, being the only sensation that he could feel other than that throbbing through his head. Nothing. Nothing made sense. What was a lie? What was the truth? Was there a truth anymore? This world he woke up in, it wasn’t his world. Rick wouldn’t do this. Rick wouldn’t do any of this! Everything was breaking.

He was breaking.

His nails tore into his scalp, trying to claw away the pain. He could feel Rick’s hands, just outside of his consciousness. He could hear his voice, but not his words. There was just pain. Throbbing, excruciating pain. 

Make it stop, make it stop, Rick, make it  _ stop! _

* * *

Andrew thought that seeing Norman in a coma was the worst thing he could imagine. Hovering between life and death, stuck in limbo. He didn't think it could get any worse.

Then… this happened.

He tried so hard to suppress the memory burned into the inside of his eyelids, of seeing Norman’s body twitch and jerk. His screams still rang in his ear. Then he just… just turned still. Like he had dropped dead.

But he wasn't dead. He was breathing, even if it was fast and shallow, like a rabbit's heartbeat. The entire time that they had to wait for an ambulance, with Andrew trying desperately to wake Norman up, he saw his eyelids flutter. They would open, just a little. But they were blank. Rolled back into his head.

Soulless.

He didn't know the words ‘catatonic state’ until they passed from the doctor's lips. It was like a coma but not, all at the same time. It was like his mind had just shut down.

Watching Norman now, though, it was hard to believe that there was still a man inside this shell.

They sat him up in a chair, and had some weird plastic tarp curled around him. Probably to hold him still in case he suddenly came out of it. But he hadn't. Instead, it looked more like Norman was inside a bodybag not yet zipped closed.

All Andrew could do was watch his eyes. How they were always just a  _ little  _ open. Sometimes they would open up halfway, enough to let Andrew see his pupils, but the rest of his body was unnaturally still.

His face was ghost white, only flushing in those small moments that he would perk up.

One time was when Chandler tried to talk to him. Just asking Norman how he was feeling. After a couple minutes of just staring, Norman's eyes closed again. Chandler didn't stay after that, and Andrew couldn't blame him.

The doctors told him to just keep trying to give stimulus. Talk to him, ask him questions. But that was when the worst happened. When he could see Norman's mouth trying to form words, but with no sound.

All Andrew could think was that Norman knew he was there, could hear and see them, but his body would not obey him. He couldn't say if he was in pain, if he was alright, if he could hear them, nothing. Just his lips moving and no words.

Andrew stared at the black plush cat sitting on the bed, having been trying to prod Norman to have any sort of physical awareness. Sometimes his body would shiver and his arms would curl into himself, but that was it. Nothing that seemed intentional.

“Do you know who gave you this?” Andrew asked, but couldn't bring himself to look at Norman's expressionless face. He reached out and played with the limp plush, filled with beans. 

Beanie Baby was what Mingus had told him. A fan had sent a customized one that tried to replicate Eye in the Dark. It even had a little tag on its ear with the name. They hadn't been very popular across the pond, so Andrew was clueless, but it had apparently been a huge craze in the states.

Chuckling to himself, Andrew leaned back in his chair and rolled the plush in between his hands. It was a limp lying cat, a little floppy, with a stitched on smile. Surprisingly cute.

“Mingus did. Do you remember him?”

No response.

“He's your son. He misses you. How about Eye in the Dark?”

Nothing, but Andrew was just trying to fill the void of silence in the room. “He's your cat. Mingus has him and is taking good care of him.”

Nudging at the paws, Andrew set the plush back down onto Norman's lap. He took in a deep breath to gather his will, then glanced back to Norman's face.

“I know you miss him. You took Eye with you everywhere. To conventions. Remember those?”

A small flutter, but still the blank expression remained.

“I didn't like them. Always so loud and stressful. But you made them fun. Even if you weren’t feeling well, or had something on your mind, no one would be able to tell."

Andrew was painfully aware of how he was talking, how every word was slow and ridiculously cheery. It was like he was talking to his toddlers again, or to an infant, trying to rouse them up. The doctors said that talking would help, to provide as much stimulus as he could, but what was the point?

Glancing down at his side, Andrew slid out his flip phone and took a look at the screen. Seventeen missed calls, about forty-five texts. If he had to guess, most were from Gael. He just slid his phone back into his pocket. She should know by now that there were more important things right now; Norman.

Grabbing the cat plush again, Andrew gave it a small squeeze. “Do you want to hold the cat?” he asked, his voice still sickly sweet. “Mingus would be happy if you did.” As if Norman knew who that was.

What was the point, honestly? It had been weeks since Norman woke up, and there wasn't even the smallest shred of his real memories poking through. It was like Norman lived the entirety of the Walking Dead again in his coma.

His fingers twisted into the black fur, his knuckles temporarily white. This wasn't fair. None of this was fair. “It would make me happy,” Andrew murmured, never taking his eyes off of Norman's blank expression. Was Norman there at all? Or was he never coming back?

In the silence of the hospital room, Andrew wondered if this was just the new normal. An unstable Norman, constantly dipping between sanity and insanity, unable to cope with his own thoughts. Giving the plush one more squeeze, Andrew carefully reached out with his other hand and grasped Norman's wrist.

“Here,” he breathed, forcing Norman's stiff arm to move from being clenched against his chest, then placed the small beanie plush into his large palm. “It's soft. Do you feel it? Do you want to play with the cat?”

God, Norman wasn't a mentally handicapped child! But what else could Andrew do right now? His hands were starting to shake as he tucked the cat to Norman's chest, wishing in vain for any response. Even just a twitch. But there was just  _ nothing. _

This man was  _ nothing! _

Andrew felt his teeth starting to grind together as he stared into the cloudy blue eyes that were just barely open. And just like always, his eyes drifted to his head. To his choppy hair. To the scars that were still visible between the strands, pink and bald. He had turned Norman into nothing. That thought still refused to leave him after all this time. 

And with every bump in the road that started to turn into chasms and cliffs, Andrew started to lose faith. Maybe this was it. Maybe he had completely ruined Norman’s life.

A soft knock only barely pulled him out of his thoughts, blinking away tears to look at the hospital door. As it cracked open, a shudder ran down his spine.

His hands tightened onto Norman’s, that almost instinctual fire rushing through his veins, only to smother it back down. He wasn’t Rick. That wasn’t Negan. But Norman didn’t know that.

“If he wakes up-”

“I know,” Jeffrey murmured, still standing with only one foot inside the room. His dark eyes were constantly flicking between himself and Norman, and occasionally to the wall when he couldn’t meet Andrew’s eyes. “I just… You know.”   
  
“Yeah.”

Glancing back to Norman, Andrew let out a long sigh. It wouldn’t hurt to let Jeffrey come close. He had already explained to ‘Daryl’ that Jeffrey wasn’t Negan, but it would take time to see if ‘Daryl’ really understood. A twitch between his fingers made Andrew glance back, then wince. “Sorry,” he mumbled under his breath, loosening his grasp on Norman’s hand that he had been about to twist off in his tight grasp.

Jeffrey pulled up a chair as quietly as he could to Norman’s opposite bedside, but Andrew could still hear the precise moment that realization crashed over the other man. His breath lodged up in his throat, and came out in a wheeze. “The nurse said… I didn’t-”

“Yeah.”

His mouth went dry and the singular word was more like a croak than anything else. Jeffery sank heavily into his chair, and no more words passed between them. They didn’t need them. They just sat and watched Norman’s flickering eyelids, his sometimes shivering hands, and his breaths dragging in and out of his pale lips.

One of them would suck in a deep breath, struggling with words, but then would let it out in a sigh moments later. This continued on for several minutes, until Andrew’s mind became just too tangled to remain silent.

“I did this to him.”

Jeffrey’s hand twitched on his lap, then curled into fists. “It was an accident.”

“You don’t really think that.”

The fists grew tighter, and his knuckles began turning white. “Doesn’t matter what I think. That’s what it is. An accident.”

Andrew’s eyes settled onto the black cat plush still laying in between Norman’s hands, the fingers sometimes shaking and squeezing and other times just laying flat. He’d kept seeing moments of clarity in Norman’s face, when the color would rush back, but would flee seconds later. Was he aware of any of this? Were they strangers sitting by his bed? Or were they Rick and Negan, in a temporary truce to watch over Daryl?

God, what kind of a story line would that be.

That thought nudged at the back of his mind, but he hushed it. It wasn’t time to think about  _ that. _ He would call Greg when he was ready. Right now, he had to stay focused.

“Any idea where the rest of the gang are?”

Jeffrey’s voice was smoother, even when it sounded forced. Trying to make small talk to break the silence, like always. Trying to soothe the awkward situation. “Mel and Chandler are home. Lauren’s flight just landed. She’s staying with Danai. Everyone else went home.”

“Helena? Ming?”

Andrew shook his head. “They don’t need to see this.”

No one needed to see this. Andrew would sacrifice almost anything to have this entire memory be scrubbed clean from his mind. “I talked to Helena. She won’t tell Mingus unless he gets worse.”

Jeffrey snorted, shaking his head. Whatever retort he may have had was swallowed back down, probably for the best. Both were already on uneasy territory with the other.

The last time they had been in a room alone together, Jeffrey had been about ready to strangle Andrew. They had avoided each other ever since, straying to the opposite sides of set if just to avoid confrontation.

In the answering silence, Jeffrey stared down at the plush in Norman’s now limp hands. Andrew’s were sitting just beside them, inches away just in case they moved. “You brought this ragged-ass thing?” Jeffrey chuckled, reaching out and starting to nudge the cat plush out of Norman’s hands. “Where’d you find this?”

“It’s his,” Andrew snapped without warning, pushing Jeffrey’s hand away. “Don’t touch it.”

“Why not? It’s just a fuckin’ toy!”

“It’s  _ his,  _ Mingus gave it to him!”

Jeffrey’s hands tightened on the toy, irritation flooding over his expression. “Jesus, man, he doesn’t know what it is!” Jeffrey pulled on the toy again, starting to slide it out of Norman’s twitching grasp. “He’s not a fuckin’ baby.”

“The doctor said it’ll help, let it go!” Andrew had no reason to be as angry as he was right now, but all he could focus on was protecting that stupid cat plush. The possible only link to bringing Norman back to the realm of the living had to be that cat. It was familiar, it was soft, and Andrew could talk about it. That had to be it, right?

Reaching over Norman’s comatose body, Andrew grabbed into the floppy beaned body, trying to pull it out of Jeffrey’s grasp. “Give it back!” he demanded, pulling hard.

“The fuck is your problem? It’s just a stupid cat!”

“It’s his! Let go!”

Glaring into Jeffrey’s dark brown eyes that stared right back into his, Andrew stood up from his chair. With one more pull, he almost dragged Jeffrey across Norman’s bed, when he heard a small rip. Shit. The stitching. Norman told him how it had been hand-made, how careful he was with all of his presents. And here they were, about to rip it in half in his hospital room.

Jeffrey only gritted his teeth at him, anger flaring. “What, gonna protect his shitty toy ‘cause you couldn’t-”

Before Jeffrey could finish what probably was a stab at Andrew, he released the plush. It sent Jeffrey careening back into the chair, just about landing flat on the floor. “What the fuck!”

“You were going to rip it!”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I could’a broke my ass!”

Looking down at the cat still held tightly in Jeffrey’s grasp, Andrew placed his hand on the bed and leaned over. “Give it back. C’mon. It’s his, and the doc says that he needs something to feel. To snap him back.”

Jeffrey blinked up at Andrew, his mouth dropping open. “Why the fuck didn’t you just say that?”

Leaning forward more, Andrew reached out for the cat that was still a good foot away from his grasp. “Just give it back, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeffrey muttered under his breath. He seemed actually ashamed of himself, staring down at the plush and turning it over in his hand. Even from where he was standing, Andrew could see the way one of the legs hanging awkwardly, the stitching pulled loose. “Shit, maybe I should see if Hil can fix it up.”

“You think?” Andrew deadpanned, holding out his hand. “We can fix it later.”

“Sorry, man.”

Snorting under his breath, Andrew waited until Jeffrey placed the plush into his hand. “It’s okay. I know it’s… this isn’t the ideal situation. I shouldn’t have overreacted.”

Jeffrey just shrugged, picking at the distended leg of the cat. He opened his mouth to speak back, only to stop short by another sound.

“You two gonna… kiss or some shit, now?”

The voice was gravely, hoarse and almost sounded more like a tire crunching across gravel. But both men snapped their heads to the man still sat up in the bed, staring at the hazy blue eyes that were struggling to focus. But there was a light in them. Some warmth. Teasing. They flicked between the two of them, but Andrew couldn’t miss the quivering smirk.

Every thought in his head stopped short, except for the obvious. Someone was awake. Barely. But… Was it Daryl? It didn’t sound like Daryl. Maybe…

“Norm?” Jeffrey breathed, his face blank, like he expected the rug to be pulled out from under him any moment. To be honest, Andrew expected the same. This couldn’t be what fixes Norman, right? Literally overloading his brain?

The eyes blinked back at them, his mouth falling open again, but it closed again. Andrew could feel his heart sink with every milimeter that Norman’s eyes closed again, and the color that came to his face started to drain away again.

In the remaining silence, Andrew only watched as Norman drifted away from them again.

“Was that…?”

“I… I don’t know,” Andrew murmured, his hand clenching around the black plush. They waited for what was probably minutes, just staring at Norman’s twitching face. They watched as the color would come back to his features, and his hands would start twitching, his jaw clenching and unclenching, but then he would go limp again.

Finally, they looked back at each other, trying to confirm that the other witnessed what they saw.

If anything… It could be a sign that Norman was still in there. Somewhere, just out of reach.

Meaning there was still hope. They just needed to pull him back. Somehow.

* * *

It was the middle of the night when Andrew got the call; Norman was coming to. He was talking, he was conscious, but they wouldn’t say anything else. Just for him to come. Taking the drive that was becoming too natural, Andrew finally came back to the hospital and was led back to Norman’s room.

And as soon as he walked in, his heart sank back again.

It wasn’t Norman. It was Daryl, scowling at whoever came through the door, curled up and defensive. More than that, though… Andrew could finally see it. The glassiness in his eyes. That light was gone again, and so was Norman. Swallowing back his swelling emotions, Andrew put back on that mask and that accent, and walked to Daryl’s bedside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much of this chapter was inspired by witnessing a schizophrenic catatonic state in person, with a person I greatly love. It's a haunting experience I wouldn't wish upon anyone to witness or experience.


End file.
